LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




DDD17'=]37flD7 












o " o 



V' 






'• ^^ ^'^ *lc 



C^ ^ •'^J^v^* ^«? ^ •©lis* av ^^ 




^^ . 







(V o " o ^ "^ 









\> < • « 



. " " ° a'?' 



























V 



V 



< o 








o V 




r*^ vP 




•Ox* «. 




.Ov-, 



















<^ 



^<^. 



*■ <■ 



% 



^ 



1^ 

* < 






^ 



^^'^^'-^- Ty.^-^ 



j^j' 




.^:< 



^-7^ 



c^'^^f^ tiH^^i^ 



iSs^-s-^J**^' 



Jt-jS^ 






y>rz^. 







7^1.--^^^^ . ^^^i^-.-- 



A"^^ 




3^'d k*J a» 



IB # S' i i H"., 



fWy/^'sJifid ?>-// Ifii7-x7i . (\/p(-n & 7,'r/(m 



ir 



n 





/■ 



y 



THE 

LADIES' WREATH; 

A SELECTION F.iOM THE 

FEMALE POETIC WRITERS 

f 

ENGLAND AND AMERICA. 

WITH 

ORIGINAL NOTICES AND NOTES: 

PREPARED ESPECIALLY 

^ ©fift^Boofe for ^11 Seasons. 



BY MRS. HALE, 

Author of « Morthwood,' ' Flora's Interpreter,' 'Traits of American Life,' &c, 



BOSTON: 

MARSH, CAPEN & LYON. 

NEW YORK: D. APPLETON & CO. 

1837. 



-pRi' 



i 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1836, 

By Marsh, Capen & Lyon, 
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 



^?(f(i 



Printed by William A. Hall & Co. 



ERRATA. 
The reader will observe that the pages from 288 to 294 are repeated. And that 
the pages from 294 to 301 appear to be left out. The text, however, is right. 



PREFACE. 



The office of Poetry is to elevate, purify, and soften the human 
character ; and thus promote civil, moral, and religious advance- 
meni. It does this in a three-fold manner ; by inculcating reverence 
and love towards God, or piety ; awakening ihe spirit of naiional 
aggrandizement, or policy ; teaching the true relations of men to 
each other and to Nature, or Philosophy. All poetry, which has 
not, at least, one of these three aims, is false to its trust, and, what- 
ever may be its temporary popularity, will die and be forgotten. 

Truth only is immortal — and as Ideality, of all the faculties 
which man possesses, is the one gifted to ascend, as it w^ere, to 
heaven, to bring thence the holy fire to illumine reason and kindle 
up the moral feelings, and is also fitted for contmual progress to- 
wards perfection, it follows, that individuals having this endow- 
ment, are delegated to discover and display those aspects and rela- 
tions of truth, which God, for purposes of wise discipline, no doubt, 
has placed withm the compass of man's genius, bui has not revealed 
to his instincts and senses; yet which must be understood and obey- 
ed before he can be good, wise, and happy. 

We may see, in this constitution of man's nature, why there are 
periods, when poetry seems to decline and lose its power. These 
are seasons of transition ; when the mass of mankind, having ap- 
plied to the purposes of advancement, the old forais of truth, are 
restless for some new development of her power, usefulness, and 
beauty ; while the poet, instead of ministering to this craving of the 
soul, only serves up the nncient models in new modes of expression. 
As easily might he reanimate an Egyptian mummy, by clothing it 
in modern habiliments, as now impose on mankind those forms of 
truth which made the wisdom of the Egyptians. The perfection of 
the poetic art will be reached, when its just philosophy shall en- 
lighten and control its worldly folicij, and both shall bring their 
richest treasures to the service and promotion oi {vae piety . 

The poetry of devotion, or piety, can only be perfected where the 
knowledge of the true God prevails. This is the poetry of the Bible; 
the first on record ; and the sacred lyre was early in the hand of 
woman, (witness the song of Deborah,) and in her hand it should 
be found. 



4 PREFACE. 

The great poets of the heathen world were those of policy only ; 
for their gods were of human invention and human passions ; and 
much, very much of the poetry of Christian bards rises no higher 
than the heathen standard. It is the lofty and complete picture of 
national aggrandizement which Homer and Virgil drew, not the 
greatness of the deeds, aims and passions they describe, that makes 
their works standards of human genius in thi& department of poetry. 
But here, woman has no place; her harp cannot move stones, nor 
tame beasts, ^he must wait till the tiowers bloom and the birds 
appear. But when, in the progress of truth, policy (or selfishness) 
gives place tp juster notions of what constitutes human happiness, 
then " divine philosophy" comes to the poet's aid, breathes into his 
soul the wisdom from above, gifts him to see and reveal the glories 
and mysteries of Nature, and teach that '• true self love and social 
are the same; " that there is no pursuit really noble and good, that 
does not aim to promote the good of others; and no dignity and 
purity in maii, that is not derived from his spiritual likeness to his 
Saviour. In this, the best and most exalted office of the muse, 
woman isnicd'ally gifted u excel. She has already entered on her 
province. It is to encourage her efforts, and dispose all who are 
wishing for ihe advancement of morals, to reflect on the aid which, 
in the present state of society, the cultivated genius of woman may 
impart, that 1 have prepared this volume. 

Two principles have guided my selections ; one, to admit no poetry 
unless its aim was " upward and onward;" the other, to allow place 
to those writers only whose style had some peculiar stamp of indi- 
viduality, which marked their genius as original; and I have sought 
to give characteristic specimens from each. 

I am aAvare that there are critics, who always speak of the " true 
feminine style," as though there was only one manner in which 
ladies could properly write poetry. I ask such to compare the 
poems of Mrs. Heraans and Mary Howitt, of Miss Taylor and 
Miss Landon, of Mrs. Sigourney and Miss Gould. Are not all these 
productions beautifully feminine, and yet different in their style of 
beauty '? The truth is, woman has not such unlimited range of sub- 
jects as man; but in the manner of treating those within her prov- 
ince, she has a freedom as perfect as his ; and the delicate shades of 
genius are as varied and distinctly marked in the one sex as its 
bold outlines are in the other. There are more varieties of the rose 
than of the oak. 

I cannot but believe that this book will find favor in the eyes of 
my own sex. It is particularly intended for young ladies — as a 
mirror, bright and polished, in which they may see reflected the 
beauty of virtue, the loveliness of the domestic affections, and the 
happiness of piety; as a wreath, whose flowers will always bloom 
to give pleasure, whenever the heart is opened to their influence. 

Boston, November 1st, 183G. 



INDEX OF POEMS 



PART FIRST.— ENGLISH AUTHORS. 



PAGE. 

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS - 13 

Madeline - _ _ _ _ i6 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers - - 19 

Breathings of Spring _ _ _ 20 

The Spells of Home . _ _ 22 

The Graves of a Household - - 23 

The Image in Lava ... 25 

The Mother's Love . _ _ 27 

Woman and Fame - _ _ 28 

The Themes of Song _ . _ 29 

The Return - - .. _ 30 

The Mirror in the Deserted Hall - - 32 

The Welcome to Death - . . 33 

The Voice of Music . . _ 34 

The Hour of Death ... 35 

Kindred Hearts - . _ _ 37 

A Thought of the Rose ... 38 

The Parting of Summer . _ _ 39 

The Song of Night ... 41 

The Deserted House - . _ 43 

The Voice of God ... 45 

Fragment - - . - _ 45 

Man and Woman - . _ 46 

Gertrude - . . . 48 

The Stranger's Heart - . _ 50 

Evening Prayer at a Girl's School - 51 

Washington's Statue _ _ _ 53 

The Voice of Spring - . _ 54 

The Hebrew Mother - . _ 57 

Sabbath Sonnet - _ _ . 59 

Tho Poetry of the PrnJ^'!'!! _ _ _ {"ti 



t> INDEX OF POEMS. 

PAGE. 

JOANNA BAILLIE - - - 61 

Sketches from the Legend of Lady Griseld Baillie 63 

Christopher Columbus - _ , 67 

The Tomb of Columbus ^ - - 70 

Patriotism and Freedom - - - 71 

The Elden Tree - - - - 72 

To a Child . - - . 76 

Selections . _ _ . 77 

True Love . - . . 78 

HANNAH MORE . - . . 80 

Conversation _ - _ _ 83 

Sensibility _ . . . 86 

Sketches from the Sacred Dramas - 88 

ANNA LyETlTIA BARBAULD - - 91 

To Mr. Barbauld - - - - 93 

An Address to the Deity - - - 94 

To Mrs. R - - - - 97 

A Thought on Death _ . _ 98 

Washing-Day . _ . - 99 

JANE TAYLOil - - - - 102 

The World in the Heart - - . 104 

The Things that are Unseen are Eternal 107 

Experience _ _ _ _ 109 

Accomplishment - - - - 110 

The Philosopher's Scales - - - 112 

The Violet - - - - 115 

L^TITIA ELIZABETH LANDON - 116 

Lines of Life - _ _ - 119 

Female Faith - - - - 123 

Musings _ . - - 124 

The Poet's Power - - - - 126 

The Adieu - - - - ' 127 

The Eve of St. John _ . . 129 

Change - - - - 130 

Woman's Destiny - _ - - 132 

Song - - - - 133 

Mont Blanc - _ . - I34 

Portrait Painting - - - - 136 

Stanzas on the Death of Mrs. Hemans - 138 

CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON 142 

All is forgotten - . . _ 144 

We shall meet no more _ - - I45 

The Widow and her Son - - - 145 

The Poet - - - - 146 



INDEXOFPOEMS. 7 

PAGE. 

Woman's Love > - - - I47 

The Fallen Leaves - - - 148 

Friendship . - _ - I49 

Thy Will be done - - - - 150 

Recollections of a faded Beauty - - 152 

True Love - - - - 153 

My Childhood's Home - - - 154 

Music's Power _ . - - 155 

MARY HOWITT - - - - 156 

Spring _ - - - 158 

Traditionary Ballad - - - 159 

The Lady and the Sea Captain - - 163 

The Spider and the Fly - - - 165 

The Snow Drop - - - - 167 

Thoughts of Heaven - - - 168 

From the Seven Temptations - - 170 

MARIA JANE JEWSBURY - - 175 

The Lost Spirit - - - - 178 

The Last Sigh of the Moor - - 180 

Symbols - - - - 181 

The World's Masque - - - 182 

The Birth-Day Ballad - - - 184 

Sons: - - - - 185 

MARY ANN BROWN - - - 186 

Man's Love _ _ _ - 188 

Woman's Love _ _ - - jSQ 

A World without Water - - - 190 

The Clouds - - - - 195 

TkesHeart and Lyre - - - 197 

The Departed - - - - 198 

Memory - - - - 199 

Kindred Spirits - - - - 200 

CAROLINE BOWLES - - - 201 

There is a Tongue in every Leaf - - 202 

Abjuration . _ - . 204 

Aura Veni _ _ - . 2O6 

The Woodbine - - - - 207 
Lines suggested by some Late Autumn Flowers 210 

The Dea'th of the Flowers - - 211 

Lines on the Death of a Young Lady - 212 

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD - - 213 

Selections from Rienzi - - - 215 

The Morning Walk - - - 221 



8 INDEX OF POEMS. 

PART SECOND.— AMERICAN AUTHORS. 

PAGE, 

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY - 223 

Niagara - - - - 227 

Winter , - - - - 229 

Nature's Royalty _ - - - 230 

Stanzas . _ - - 233 

Radiant Clouds at Sunset - - 234 

A Cottage Scene _ - - - 235 

Solitude - - - - 236 

Alice ----- 237 

The Coral Insect 239 

The Mother of Washington - - 241 

Poetry ----- 242 

Filial Claims - - - - 243 

Washington's Birth-Day - - - 244 

The Bride ----- 246 

Indian Names _ _ - - 248 

Death of an Infant - - - - 249 

Felicia Hemans _ . - - 250 

Blessed are the Dead _ - _ 252 

HANNAH F. GOULD - - - 253 

The Zephyr's Soliloquy - - - 255' 

The Little Foot - - - - 257 

The Frost ----- 259 

The Thrice-closed Eye - - - 260 

Worship by the Rose-Tree - - - 261 

The Widow's Lullaby - - - 262 

The Empty Bird's Nest - - - 263 

The Prostrate Pink - - - 264 

The Moon upon the Spire - - - 266 

Recollections - . - - 267 

The Waterfall - - - - 269 

The Wild Violet - - - - 270 

The Frozen Dove - - - - 272 

The Ground Laurel - - - 273 

EMMA C. EMBURY. - - - - 274 

Clara ----- 276 

The Mother's Farewell to her Wedded Daughter 278 

Stanzas ----- 280 

The Three Painters - - - - 281 

Melancholy ----- 282 

The WidoAv's Wooer - - - 283 

Stp.nzai to a Sister - . - - 284 



INDEX OF POEMS. 9 

PAGE. 

ANNA MARIA WELLS - - - 286 

The White Hare - - - - 288 

Ellen of North Carolina - - - 290 

Autumnal Musings - - - - 292 

The Old Elm Tree - - - - 294 

The Tamed Eagle - - - - 295 

Anna ----- 296 

WhippoorwiU - - - - 298 

Lines 299 

To a Young Mother - - - 300 

SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH - - 301 

The Hunter's Bride _ - . 304 

The Huma ----- 306 

The Heart's Treasures - _ . 307 

The Stranger - - - - 308 

Trust in Heaven - - 311 

Stanzas ----- 312 

I would never Kneel - - - 313 

LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON - - 314 

To a Friend - - - - 319 

The Guardian Angel . . . 320 

To a Star ----- 321 

Feats of Death - - - - 322 

Stanzas - . - _ _ 323 

Fragment ----- 324 

FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD - - 325 

The Blind Girl . - - - 527 

My Mother's Sigh - - - - 330 

Stanzas - _ _ - - 331 

To a Young Friend - - - 332 

Lines _ - _ . . 334 

The Star of Promise _ - - 335 

A Fra2:ment - - - . 336 

ANNA PEYRE DLXNIES - - - .337 

Wedded Love - . . . 339 

The Blush ----- 340 

The Charnel Ship - - - - 341 

To my Husband's First Gray Hair - - 344 

Happiness ----- 346 

Thoughts in Autumn - - - 347 

Lines ----- 349 

Stanzas _ - _ - - 350 

The Wife - - - - ^ 351 

The Heart _ - - . 35? 



10 INDEX OF POEMS. 

PAGE. 

SARAH HELEN WHITMAN - - 354 

The Blind Mao's Lay - - - 356 

Retrospection _ « - - 359 

She Blooms no more . . _ 360 

To the Spirit of Poetry - - - 362 

CAROLINE OILMAN - . . 364 

The Betrothed . _ . . 365 

The Mocking-Bird in the City - - 369 

Which is the Beauty _ _ _ 369 

To _ - . _ - 370 

Children at Play - - - - 372 

ELIZABETH P. ELLET - - - 373 

Susquehanna _ _ . - 375 

YouthfulJoys . - . . 377 

To the Lance-Fly - ' - - - 378 

Who are the Happy _ . - 379 

Stanzas _ - _ _ - 379 

Worldly Cares - - - - 381 

Is this a Day of Death - - - 382 

SARAH JOSEPHA HALE - - - 383 

The Victor's Crown - - 389 

The Two Maidens - - - 390 

The Light of Home - - - 391 

New-Year's Day - - - - 392 

The Father's Choice - - - 395 

The Silk-Worm - - - - 397 

Time's Last Visit - - - - 399 

To a Palm Leaf - - - - 403 

Man's First Offering - - - - 404 

The Amulet - _ - . 405 

The Three Sceptres - - - 407 



TO 

MRS. ABBOTT LAWRENCE,^ 

AS A SINCERE EXPRESSION OF 

THIS BOOK 

IS INSCRIBED, BY HER OBLIGED AND 

^ffecUonate jFrfenti, 

S. J. Hale. 



THE LADIES' WREATH 



PART FIRST 



FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.* 

The name of Mrs. Hemans stands pre-eminent among 
female poetic writers, as unquestionably as the Rose holds 
the rank of "garden queen" among the flowers. She has 
gone from us, but the light of her genius will never be dim- 
med, nor the song of her harp forgotten. She has thrilled 
those chords of the human soul, which, while the race of 
man continues, cannot but respond to her sentiments. — 
Love, in all its purest, holiest, sweetest emotions of house- 
hold affections, patriotism and devotion, was the mighty- 
spell by which she wrought j and till love shall cease from 
earth, her name can never die. 

In perusing the Poems of Mrs. Hemans, we are struck 
with her wonderful perception of the heautiful. This 
seems to be her peculiar gift. Whatever be the scene de- 
scribed, the character or object introduced, she always 

* The Poems of Mrs. Hemans have been published in a variety 
of forms, and in many editions. The latest and most complete is 
the American edition, published, since her decease, by Mr. Ash, of 
Philadelphia. It comprises all her works, in one vol. octavo. 
2 



14 THE LADIES' WREATH, 

gathers around her images and allusions of exceeding beau- 
ty ; and these selected with a moral taste so pure and re- 
fined, that it seems to have shed the lustre of heaven upon 
the things of earth. 

This exhibition of refined moral taste, which can only be 
cultivated in perfection when regulated by piety of heart, 
will be of inestimable benefit to the young imaginative 
reader; and so purely beautiful did her Poems appear, that 
we scarcely knew when to pause in our selection. Mrs. 
Hemans does, in truth, merit the gratitude as well as ad- 
miration of her sex, for she has exalted the genius of wo- 
man, and shown an example of excellence in private life, — 
thus proving that the cultivation of the highest gifts of in- 
tellect are not incompatible with the performance of our 
humblest duties. 

She was born in Liverpool. Her maiden name was 
Browne. Her father was a native of Ireland ; her mother 
was a German lady, a Miss Wagner, but descended from a 
Venetian family. To these circumstances Mrs. Hemans 
would often playfully allude, as accounting for the strong 
tinge of romance and poetry which pervaded her character 
from her earliest years. Another circumstance, which un- 
doubtedly operated strongly in the development of these 
traits, was the removal of her family, when she was very 
young, to North Wales. That land of wild mountain sce- 
nery and ancient minstrelsy, was the fitting place to impart 
sublimity to her youthful fancies, and elevate her feelings 
with the glow of patriotism and devotion. She married 
early, and settled in the neighborhood of St. Asaphs — but 
her married life was not happy. This domestic infelicity, 
was to her a most painful subject, one to which she could 
bear no allusion; and the tenderness and forbearance with 
Avhich she, while living, treated the faults of her husband? 
render it the duty of those, who love her memory, to forbear, 
as far as possible, from adverting to scenes and sufferings 
that so tried and tortured her sensitive heart. Suffice it 



MRS. HEMANS. 15 

to say, that her husband left her and his five young sons to 
struggle, as they might, with sorrow, and the cold, selfish 
world. Mrs. Hemans continued to reside in Wales with 
her mother, till the death of the latter, when the former re- 
moved to Wavertree. in the neighborhood of Liverpool. 
Here she resided about three years, and then again remov- 
ed to Dublin, where the expenses of educating her sons 
would, she found, be more within her means. But sorrow, 
care, and the " wasting task and lone " of her minstrel vo- 
cation, had brought on a deep disease, which the sympathy 
of friends (and who that ever read the outpourings of her 
soul was not her friend?) could not alleviate or remove. 
She closed her life May 30th, 1835, "and died as stars go 
down !" her genius bright and expanding till the last, and 
trust in her Redeemer, calming every fear, and cheering the 
darkness of the tomb with the holy light of faith and love. 

" We would not win thee back ; thy lyre e'en here 

Breathed the undying music of the sky — 
Its tone was not of earth, too sweetly clear 

To blend with aught of life's sad harmony. 
Then joy for thee, crowned one ! forever wearing 

Immortal glory on thy radiant brow ; 
Bard of eternity ! in triumph bearing 

A lofty part in heaven's sweet hymn, even now. 

Joy, joy for thee!" 



MRS. HEMANS' POEMS. 



MADELINE. 

Jl domestic TAL£. 

"My child, my child, thou leav'st me ! — I shall hear 

The gentle voice no more, that blest mine ear 

With its first utterance ; I shall miss the sound 

Of thy light step amidst the flowers around, 

And thy soft breathing hymn at twilight's close, 

And thy ' Good-night ' at parting for repose. 

Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone, 

And the low breeze will have a mournful tone 

Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee. 

My child! and thou, along the moonlight sea. 

With a soft sadness haply in thy glance. 

Shall watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France, 

Fading to air. Yet, blessings with thee go ! 

Love guard thee, gentlest ! and the exile's woe 

From thy young heart be far ! — and sorrow not 

For me, sweet daughter ! in my lonely lot, 

God shall be with me. — Now farewell, farewell!: 

Thou that hast been what words may never tell 

Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days 

When thou wert pillowed there, and wont to raise 

In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye 

That still sought mine : — these moments are gone by; 

Thou too must go, my flower ! — yet with thee dwell 

The peace of God ! — One, one more gaze — farewell I" 



MRS. HEMANS. 17 

This was a mother's parting with her child, 

A young meek Bride, on whom fair fortune smil'd, 

And wooed her with a voice of love away 

From childhood's home ; yet, there, with fond delay 

She linger'd on the threshold, heard the note 

Of her caged bird thro' trellis'd rose-leaves float. 

And fell upon her mother's neck, and wept, 

Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept, 

Gush'd o'er her soul, and many a vanished day. 

As in one picture traced, before her lay. 

But the farewell was said ; and on the deep, 
When its breast heavedin sunset's golden sleep. 
With a calm heart, young Madeline ere long 
Pour'd forth her own sweet solemn vesper-song, 
Breathing of home : through stilliiess heard afar. 
And duly rising with the first pale star. 
That voice was on the waters; till at last 
The sounding ocean-solitudes were pass'd. 
And the bright land was reached, the youthful world 
That glows along the West : the sails were furled 
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride 
Look'd on the home that promis'd hearts untried 
A bower of bliss to come. — Alas ! we trace 
The map of our own paths, and long ere years 
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface. 
On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with tears. 
That home was darkened soon : the summer breeze 
Welcom'd with death the wanderers from the seas ; 
Death unto one, and anguish how forlorn, 
To her, that widow'd in her marriage-morn, 
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him, 
Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide, 
Joy had gone forth and left the green earth dim, 
As from the sun shut out from every side. 
By the close veil of misery! — oh but ill 
2* 



1'8 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high heart 
Bears its first blow! — it knows not yet the part 
Which life will teach — to suffer and be still, 
And with submissive love to count the flowers 
Which yet are spared, and through the future hours. 
To send nabusy dream ! — She had not learned 
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd, 
In weariness, from life ; then came the unrest, 
The heart-siek yearning of the exile's breast, 
The haunting sound of voices far away. 
And household steps, until at last she lay 
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams 
Of the gay vineyards and blue-rushing streams 
In her own sunny land, and murmuring oft- 
Familiar names, in accents wild, yet soft, 
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught 
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught. 
To strangers! Oh! could strangers raise the head 
Gently as hers was raised? Did strangers shed 
The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow 
And wasted cheek with half unconscious flow? 
Something was there, that through the lingering night 
Outwatches patiently the taper's light ; 
Something that faints not through the day's distress. 
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness ; 
Love, true and perfect love !" — Whence came that power, 
TTprearing through the storm the drooping flower? 
Whence? who can ask? the wild delirium pass'd, 
And from her eyes the spirit look'd at last 
Into her mother^s face, and wakening knew 
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue, 
The kind sweet smile of old ! — And had she come, 
Thus in life's evening, from her distant home. 
To save her child"? — E'en so — nor yet in vain : 
In that young heart the life sprung up again. 
And lovely still, with so much love to give 
Seem'd this fair world, though faded ; still to live 



MRS. HEMANS. 19- 

Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast 
That rocked her childhood, sinking in soft rest, 
" Sweet mother, gentlest mother ! can it be ? " 
The loved one cried — "and do Hook on thee? 
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore, 
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once naore." 



LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

The breaking waves dash'd high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast. 
And the woods against a stormy sky 

Their giant branches toss'd; 

And the heavy night hung dark, 

The hills and waters o'er. 
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame : 

Not as the flying, come. 

In silence and in fear ; — 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang. 

And the stars heard, and the sea ! 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean-eagle soared 
From his nest by the white wave's foam, 



20 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd — 
This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair,, 

Amidst that Pilgrim band -, — 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground. 

The soil where first they trod ! 
They have left unstain'd what there they found 

Freedom to worship God. 



BREATHINGS OP SPRING. 

What wak'st thou. Spring ? — sweet voices in the woods. 
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute ; 

Thou bringest back to fill the solitudes. 

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, 

Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, 
Ev'n as our hearts may be. 

And the leaves greet thee, Spring! — the joyous leaves, 
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, 

Where each young spray a rosy flush receives. 
When the south wind hath pierced the whispery shade, 



MRS. HEMANS. 21 

And happy murmurs running thro' the grass, 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 

And the bright waters — they too hear thy call, 
Spring, the awakener! thou ha^t burst their sleep! 

Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody, and in the forest deep. 

Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
Their windings to the day. 

And flowers — the fairy-peopled world of flowers I 
Thou from the dust hast set that glory free. 

Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours. 
And pencilling the wood-anemone : 

Silent they seem — yet each, to thoughtful eye. 
Glows with mute poesy. 

But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring? 

The human heart with all its dreams and sighs ? 
Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing, 

Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! 
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art ; — 
What wak'st thou in the heart ? 

Too much, oh ! there too much ! — we know not well 
Wherefore it should be thus ; yet, rous'd by thee. 

What fond strange yearnings, from the souPs deep cell 
Gush for the faces we no more may see I 

How are we haunted in the wind's low tone, 
By voices that are gone ! 

Looks of familiar love, that never more. 
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, 

Past words of welcome to our household door, 
And vanish'd smiles, and sounds of parted feet — 

Spring ! midst the murmurs of the flowering trees. 
Why, why reviv'st thou these 1. 



22 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Vain longings for the dead! — why come they back, 
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms 1 

Oh ! is it not, that, from thy earthly track, 

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? 

Yes ! gentle Spring ; no sorrow dims thine air, 
Breath'd by our lov'd ones there ! 



THE SPELLS OF HOME. 

There blend the ties that strengthen 

Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links that lengthen 

Joy's visits when most brief. 

Bernard Barton. 

By the soft green light in the woody glade, 

On the banks of moss, where thy childhood played; 

By the household tree, thro' which thine eye 

First looked in love to the summer sky 3 

By the dewy gleam, by the very breath 

Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath, 

Upon thy heart there is a spell. 

Holy and precious — oh ! guard it well ! 

By the sleepy ripple of the stream, 
Which hath lulPd thee into many a dream ; 
By the shiver of the ivy-leaves 
To the wind of noon at thy casement eaves ; 
By the bees' deep murmur in the limes, 
By the music in the Sabbath chimes ; 
By every sound of thy native shade. 
Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 

By the gathering round the winter hearth, 
When twilight call'd unto household mirth ; 



MRS. HEMANS. 23 

By the fairy tale or the legend old 

In that ring of happy faces told ; 

By the quiet hour when hearts unite 

In the parting prayer, and the kind " Good Night ; " 

By the smiling eye and the loving tone, 

Over thy life has the spell been thrown. 

And bless that gift ! — it hath gentle might, 
A guardian power and a guiding light. 
It hath led the freeman forth to stand 
In the mountain-battles of his land ; 
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas. 
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ; 
And back to the gates of his father's hall, 
It hath led the weeping prodigal. 

Yes ! when thy heart in its pride would stray 

From the pure first loves of its youth away ; 

When the sullying breath of the world would come 

O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home, — 

Think thou again of the woody glade, 

And the sound by the rustling ivy made; 

Think of the tree at thy father's door, 

And the kindly spell shall have power once more ! 



THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 

They grew in beauty, side by side. 
They fill'd one home with glee ; — 

Their graves are sever'd, far and wide, 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 
O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 

She had each folded flower in sight; — 
Where are those dreamers now 1 



24 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

One, midst th« forests of the West, 

By a dark stream is laid — 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar shade. 

The Sea, the lone blue sea, hath one, 
He lies where pearls lie deep; 

He was the lov'd of all, yet none 
O'er his Ioav bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are drest, 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapt his colors round his breast. 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 

And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd ; 

She faded midst Italian flowers, — 
The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who play'd 
Beneath the same green tree ; 

Whose voices mingled as they pray'd 
Around one parent knee ! 

They that with smiles lit up the hall 
And cheer'd with song the hearth, — 

Alas ! for love, if thou wert all. 
And nought beyond, oh, earth ! 



MRS. HEMANS. 25 



THE IMAGE IN LAVA. 

Thou thing of years departed! 

What ages have gone by, 
Since here the mournful seal was set 

By love and agony ! 

Temple and tower have moulder'd, 
Empires from earth have pass'd, — 

And woman's heart hath left a trace 
Those glories to outlast! 

And childhood's fragile image 

Thus fearfully enshrined, 
Survived the proud memorials rear'd 

By conquerors of mankind. 

Babe ! wert thou brightly slumbering 

Upon thy mother's breast, 
When suddenly the fiery tomb 

Shut round each gentle guest? 

A strange dark fate o'ertook thee, 
Fair babe, and loving heart ! 

One moment of a thousand pangs — 
Yet better than to part ! 

Happy if that fond bosom, 

On ashes here impress'd, 
Thou wert the only treasure, child. 

Whereon a hope might rest. 
3 



26 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Perchance all vainly lavish'd 

Its other love had been ; 
And when it trusted, nought remain'd 

But thorns on which to lean. 

Far better then to perish, 

Thy form within its clasp, 
Than live and loose thee, precious one, * 

From that impassion'd grasp. 

Oh ! I could pass all relics 

Left by the pomps of old, 
To gaze on this rude monument, 

Cast in affection's mould. 

Love, human love ! what art thou? 

Thy print upon the dust 
Outlives the cities of renown, 

Wherein the mighty trust ! 

Immortal, oh! immortal 

Thou art, whose earthly glow 
Hath given these ashes holiness — 

It must, it must be so ! 

* The impression of a Avoman's form, with an infarxt clasped to 
the bosom, was found at the uncovering of Herculaneum. 



MRS. HEMANS. 27 



THE MOTHER'S LOVE. 

There is none. 

In all this cold and holloAv world, no fount 

Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 

A mother's heart. — It is but pride, wherewith 

To his fair son the father's eye doth turn, 

Watching his groAvth. Ay, on the boy he looks, 

The bright glad creature springing in his path 

But as the heir of his great name — the young 

And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long 

Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love ! 

This is mari's love ! — What marvel ? — You ne'er made 

Your breast the pillow of his infancy. 

While to the fulness of your hearts glad heavings 

His fair cheek rose and fell ; and his bright hair 

Waved softly to your breath ! — You ne'er kept watch 

Beside him till the last pale star had set, 

And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph broke 

On your dim weary eye : not yours the face 

Which, early faded through fond care for him, 

Hung o'er his sleep, and, duly as heaven's light. 

Was there to greet his wakening. You ne'er smoothed 

His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest. 

Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours 

Had learned soft utterance ; pressed your lips to his 

When fever parched it ; hushed his wayward cries. 

With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love ! 

No! these are Woman'' s tasks ! — In these her youth, 

And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, 

Steal from her all unmark'd ! 



28 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



WOMAN AND FAME. 

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame, — 

A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earthly frame 

Above mortality. 
Away ! to me — a woman — bring 
Sweet waters from affection's spring. 

Thou hast green laurel-leaves that twine 

Into so proud a wreath — 
For that resplendent gift of thine, 

Heroes have smiled in death. 
Give me from some kind hand a flower, 
The record of one happy hour. 

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone 

Can bid each life-pulse beat, 
As when a trumpet's note hath blown, 

Calling the brave to meet. 
But mine, let mine — a woman's breast — 
By words of home-born love be bless'd. 

A hollow sound is in thy song, 

A mockery in thy eye. 
To the sick heart that doth but long 

For aid, for sympathy, 
For kindly looks to cheer it on, 
For tender accents that are gone. 



Fame, Fame ! thou canst not be the stay 
Unto the drooping reed, 



MRS. HEMANS. 29 

The cool fresh fountain in the day 

Of the soul's feverish need : 
Where must the lone one turn or flee ? — 
Not unto thee, oh ! not to thee ! 



THE THEMES OF SONG. 

Where shall the minstrel find a theme 1 

Where'er for freedom shed, 
Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream. 

Amidst the mountains, red. 

Where'er a rock, a fount, a grove, 

Bears record to the faith 
Of love, deep, holy, fervent love, 

Victor of fear and death. 

Where'er a spire points up to heaven, 
Through storm and summer air, 

Telling that all around have striven, 
Man's heart, and hope, and prayer. 

Where'er the chieftain's crested brow 
In its pride hath been struck down, 

Or a bright hair'd virgin head laidjow, 
Wearing its youth's first crown. 

Where'er a home and hearth have been, 
That now are man's no more ; 

A place of ivy, freshly green, 
Where laughter's light is o'er. 

Where'er by some forsaken grave, 
Some nameless greensward heap, 

A bird may sing, a violet wave, 
A star its vigil keep. 
3* 



30 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Or where a yearning heart of old. 

Or a dream of shepherd men, 
With forms of more than earthly mould, 

Hath peopled grot or glen. 

There may the bard's high themes he found — 

We die, we pass away ; 
But faith, love, pity — these are bound 

To earth without decay. 

The heart that burns, the cheek that glows* 

The tear from hidden springs, 
The thorn, and glory of the rose — 

These are undying things. 

Wav after wave, of mighty stream. 

To the deep sea hath gone ; 
Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream, 

The exhaustless flood rolls on. 



THE RETURN. 

" Art thou come with the heart of thy childhood back. 

The free, the pure, the kind?" 
— So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track. 

As they play'd to the mountain wind. 

" Hast thou been true to thy early love ? " 

W^hisper'd my native streams ; 
"Doth the spirit rear'd amidst hill and grove, 

Still revere its first high dreams?" 



" Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer 
Of the child in his parent-halls? " — 

Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air. 
From the old ancestral walls. 



MRS. HEMANS. 31 

" Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, 

Whose place of rest is nigh? 
With the father's blessing o'er thee shed 

With the mother's trusting eye ? " 

Then my tears gushed forth in sudden rain, 

As I answer'd — " O ye shades I 
I bring not my childhood's heart again 

To the freedom of your glades I 

"I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, 

O bright rejoicing streams ! 
Light after light in my soul have died, 

The early glorious dreams ! 

" And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd, 

The prayer at my mother's knee — 
Darkened and troubled I come at last. 

Thou home of my boyish glee ! 

" But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, 

To soften and atone ; 
And O ye scenes of those blessed years ! 

They shall make me again your ownJ* 



32 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL. 

O dim, forsaken mirror ! 
How many a stately throng 
Hath o'er thee gleamed, in vanished hours. 
Of the wine cup and the song ! 

The song hath left no echo, 
The bright wine hath been quafTd, 
And hushed is every silver voice 
That lightly here hath laugh'd. 

O mirror, lonely mirror, 
Thou of the silent hall! 
Thou hast been flushed with beauty's bloom — 
Is this, too, vanished all ? 

It is, with the scattered garlands 
Of triumphs long ago. 
With the melodies of buried lyres. 
With the faded rainbow's glow. 

And for all the gorgeous pageants, 
For the glance of gem and plume. 
For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath, 
And vase of rich perfume ; 

Now, dim forsaken mirror. 
Thou giv'st but faintly back 
The quiet stars, and the sailing moon, 
On her solitary track. 

And thus with man's proud spirit, 
Thou tellest me 'twill be. 
When the forms and hues of this world fade, 
From his memory as from thee. 



MRS. HEMANS. 33 



And his heart's long troubled waters 
At last in stillness lie, 
Reflecting but the images 

Of the solemn world on high. 



THE WELCOME TO DEATH. 

Thou art welcome, O thou warning voice, 

My soul hath pined for thee ; 
Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from shore 

To wanderer on the sea. 
I hear thee in the rustling Avoods, 

In the sighing vernal airs; 
Thou call'st me from the lonely earth, 

With a deeper toie than theirs. 

The lonely earth ! since kindred steps 

From its green paths have fled, 
A dimness and a hush have fall'n 

O'er all its beauty spread. 
The silence of the unanswering soul, 

Is on me and around ; 
My heart hath echoes but for thee, 

Thou still small warning sound ! 

Voice after voice hath died away, 

Once in my dwelling heard. 
Sweet household name by name hath changed 

To griePs forbidden word ! 
From dreams of night on each I call, 

Each of the far removed; 
And waken to my own wild cry, 

Where are you, my beloved ? 



34 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Ye left me ! and earth's flowers grew fill'd 

With records of the past, 
And stars pour'd down another light 

Than o'er my youth they cast : 
The skylark sings not as he sang 

When ye were by my side, 
And mournful tones are in the wind, 

Unheard before ye died ! 

Thou art welcome, O thou summoner ! 

Why should the last remain? 
What eye can reach my heart of hearts, 

Bearing in light again ? 
Even could this be — too much of fear 

O'er love would noio be thrown — 
Away, away ! from time, from change, 

To dwell amidst mine own ! 



THE VOICE OF MUSIC. 

" Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are closely bound." 

Child Harold. 

Whence is the might of thy master spell ? 
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell — 
How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath. 
Passionate visions of love and death? 

How call'st thou back, with a note or sigh, 
Words and low tones from the days gone by — 
A sunny glance, or a fond farcAvell? 
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell ! 

What is the power, from the soul's deep spring 
In sudden gushes the tears to bring ; 
Even 'midst the spells of the festal glee 
Fountains of sorrow are stirred by thee ! 



MRS. HEMANS. 35 

Vain are those tears ! — vain and fruitless all — 
Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall ; 
For a purer bliss while the full heart burns, 
For a brighter home while the spirit yearns. 

Something of mystery there surely dwells, 
Waiting thy touch, in our bosom-cells ; 
Something that finds not its answer here — 
A chain to be clasped in another sphere. 

Therefore a current of sadness deep, 
Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep, 
Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky — 
Like a name of the dead when the wine foams high ! 

Yet, speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught 
With vain remembrance and troubled thought; — 
Speak ! for thou tellest my soul that its birth 
Links it with regions more bright than earth ! 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

II est dans la Nature d'aimer a se livrer a I'idee meme qu'on re- 
doute. — Corinne. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 

Day is for mortal care, 
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, 

Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer — 
But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth. 



36 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

The banquet hath its hour, 
Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine ; 

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, 
A time for softer tears — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay, 

And smile at thee — but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north- wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, 

When autumn's hue shall tinge the goldengrain. 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? 

Is it when spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? 
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? — 
They have one season — all are ours to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam. 
Thou art where music melts upon the air; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home. 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. 



MRS. HEMANS. 37 



KINDRED HEARTS. 

Oh I ask not, hope thou not too much 

Of sympathy below ! 
Few are the hearts whence one same touch 

Bids the sweet fountain flow ; 
Few — and by still conflicting powers 

Forbidden here to meet — 
Such ties would make this life of ours 

Too fair for aught so fleet. 

It may be that thy brother's eye 

Sees not as thine, which turns 
In such deep reverence to the sky, 

Where the rich sunset burns: 
It may be that the breath of Spring, 

Borne amidst violets lone, 
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring — 

A dream, to his unknown. 

The tune that speaks of other times — 

A sorrowful delight ; 
The melody of distant climes — 

The sound of waves by night; 
The wind, that, with so many a tone, 

Some chord within can thrill — 
These may have language all thine own. 

To him a mystery still. 

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true 

And steadfast love of years; 
The kindly, that from childhood grew — 

The faithful to thy tears ! 
4 



38 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

If there be one, that, o'er the dead, 
Hath in thy grief borne part, 

And watch'd through sickness by thy bed 
Call his a kindred heart ! 

But for those bonds all perfect made 

Wherein bright spirits blend. 
Like sister flowers of one sweet shadCj 

With the same breeze that bend — 
For that full bliss of thought allied, 

Never to mortals given — 
Oh I lay thy lovely dreams aside, 

Or lift them unto heaven. 



A THOUGHT OP THE ROSE. 

How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom. 
Rose ! ever wearing beauty for thy dower ! 

The bridal day — the festival — the tomb — 

Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower ! 

Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by 

A thousand images of love and grief, 
Dreams filled with tokens of mortality, 

Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief. 

Not such thy spells o'er those that hail'd thee first, 
In the clear light of Eden's golden day ! 

There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst, 
Link'd with no dim remembrance of decay. 

Rose! for the banquet gathered, and the bier; 

Rose ! colored now by human hope or pain : 
Surely, where death is not — nor change, nor fear, 

Yet may we meet thee, Joy's own flower, again ! 



MRS. HEMANS. 39 



THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 

Thou'rt bearing hence thy roses, 

Glad Summer, — fare thee well! 
Thou'rt singing thy last melodies 

In every wood and dell. 

But in the golden sunset 

Of thy latest lingering day, 
Oh ! tell me, o'er this chequered earth, 

How hast thou pass'd away. 

Brightly, sweet Summer! brightly 

Thine hours are floated by, 
To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs. 

The rangers of the sky. 

And brightly in the forests 

To the wild deer wandering free; 
And brightly 'midst the garden flowers 

To the happy murmuring bee. 

But how to human bosoms, 

With all their hopes and fears, 
And thoughts that make them eagle wings 

To pierce the unborn years 1 

Sweet Summer ! to the captive 
Thou hast flown in burning dreams 

Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves. 
And the blue rejoicing streams: — 



40 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

To the wasted and the weary, 
On the bed of sicki ess boundj 

In sweet delicious fantasies, 
That changed with every sound : — 

To the sailor on the billows, 

In longings wild and vain, 
From the gushing founts and breezy hills 

And the homes of earth again I 

And unto me, glad Summer ! 

How hast thou flown to me ? 
My chainless footsteps nought hath kept 

From thy haunts of song and glee. 

Thou hast flown in wayward visions, 

In memories of the dead — 
In shadows from a troubled heart. 

O'er thy sunny pathway shed : 

tn brief and sudden strivings-,, 

To fling a weight aside — 
'Midst these thy melodies have ceased^ 

And all thy roses died. 

But oh ! thou gentle Summer, 
If I greet thy flowers once more,, 

Bring me again thy buoyancy, 
Wherewith my soul should soar I 

Give me to hail thy sunshine, 

With song and spirit free ; 
Or in a purer air than this 

May that next meeting be. 



MRS. HEMANS, 41 



THE SONG OP NIGHT. 

I COME to thee, O Earth ! 
With all my gifts: — for every flower, sweet dew. 
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew 

The glory of its birth. 

Not one which glimmering lies 
Far amidst folding hills or forest leaves, 
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives 

A spirit of fresh dyes. 

I come with every star — 
Making thy streams, that, on their noonday track. 
Gave but the moss, the reed, the lily back, 

Mirrors of Avorlds afar. 

I come with peace ; I shed 
Sleep through thy wood-walks o'er the honey-bee. 
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee, 

The hyacinth's meek head. 

On my own heart I lay 
The weary babe, and, sealing with a breath 
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath 

The shadowing lids to play. 

I come with mightier things: 
Who calls me silent?— I have many tones — 
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans 

Borne on my sweeping wings. 
4* 



42 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

I waft them not alone 
From the deep organ of the forest shades, 
Or buried streams, ushered amidst their glade& 

Till the bright day is done ; — 

But in the human breast 
A thousand still small voices I awake, 
Strong in their sweetness, from the soul to shake 

The mantle of its rest. 

I bring them from the past : 
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, 
From crushed affections, which, tho' long o'erbornef, 

Make their tone heard at last. 

I bring them from the tomb : 
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love 
They pass — though low as murmurs of a dove — 

Like trumpets through the gloom. 

I come with all my train : 
Who calls me lonely ? — Hosts around me tread,. 
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead 

Phantoms of heart and brain ! 

Looks from departed eyes. 
These are my lightnings 1 — filled with anguish vain, 
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain. 

They smite Avith agonies. 

I, that with soft control 
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, 
I am the avenging one! — the arm'd, the strong, 

The searcher of the soul. 

I, that shower dewy light 
Through slumbering leaves,bring storms, the tempest-birth 
Of memory, thought, remorse: Be holy, Earth! 

I am the solemn Niglit I 



I 



MRS. HEMANS, 43 



THE DESERTED HOUSE, 

Gloom is upon thy lonely hearth, 

silent house ! once fill'd with mirth ; 
Sorrow is in the breezy sound 

Of thy tall poplars, whispering round. 

The shadow of departed hours 
Hangs dim upon thine early flowers ; 
Even in thy sunshine seems to brood 
Something more deep than solitude. 

Fair art thou, fair to stranger's gaze. 
Mine own sweet home of other days ! 
My children's birth-place ! yet for me, 
It is too much to look on thee ! 

Too much! for all about thee spread — 

1 feel the memory of the dead, 
And almost linger for the feet 

That never more my steps shall meet. 

The looks, the smiles, all vanish'd now, 
Follow me where thy roses blowj 
The echoes of kind household words 
Are Avith me midst thy singing birds. 

Till my heart dies, it dies away 
In yearnings for what might not stay ; 
For love, which ne'er deceiv'd my trust, 
For all which went with " dust to dust!" 

What now is left me but to raise, 

From thee, lorn spot ! my spirit's gaze, — 



44 THE LADIES' WREATH;. 

To lift, through tears, my straining eye 
Up to my Father's house on high? 

Oh, many are the mansions there ; 
But not in one hath grief a share I 
No haunting shades from things gone by 
May there o'ersweep the unchanging sky. 

And they are there, whose long-loved mien 
In earthly home no more is seen ; 
Whose places, where they smiling sate, 
Are left unto us desolate. 

We miss them when the board is spread ; 
We miss them when the prayer is said ; 
Upon our dreams their dying eyes 
In still and mournful fondness rise. 

But they are where these longings vain 
Trouble no more the heart and brain; 
The sadness of this aching love 
Dims not our Father's house above. 

Ye are at rest, and I in tears,* 

Ye dwellers of the iinmortal spheres! 

Under the poplar boughs I stand, 

And mourn the broken household band. 

But by your life of lowly faith, 
And by your joyful hope in death. 
Guide me, till on sOtue brighter shore 
The sever'd wreath is bound once more. 

Holy ye were, and good and true ! 
No change can cloud my thoughts of you: 
Guide me like you to live and die, 
And reach my Father's house on high ! 

* From an ancient Hebrew dirge, '* Mourn for the mourner, and 
not for the dead ; for he is at rest, and we in tears." 



MRS. HEMANS. 45 



THE VOICE OP GOD. 

Amidst the thrilling leaves Thy voice 
At evening's fall drew near ; 

Father! and did not man rejoice 
That blessed sound to hear? 

Did not his heart within him burn, 
Touch'd by the solemn tone? 

Not so! for, never to return, 
Its purity was gone. 

Therefore, midst holy stream and bower, 

His spirit shook with dread, 
And call'd the cedars, in that hour 

To veil his conscious head. 

Oh ! in each wind, each fountain's flow, 

Each whisper of the shade, 
Grant me, my God ! thy voice to know. 

And not to be afraid, 



FRAGMENT. 
Oh, what is Nature's strength ? — the vacant eye. 
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply ; 
The wild delirious laughter of despair. 
The mirth of frenzy — seek an answer there. 
Weep not, sad moralist, o'er desert plains, 
Strew'd with the wrecks of grandeur, mould'ring fanes, 
Arches of triumphs long with weeds o'ergrown, 
And regal cities — now the serpent's own ; — 
Earth has more dreadful ruins — one lost mind, 
Whose star is quenched, hath lessons for mankind 
Of deeper import than each prostrate dome. 
Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome. 



46 ^ THE LADIES' WREATH 



MAN AND WOMAN. 

" Women act their parts 



When they do make their order'd houses know them. 

Men must be busy out of doors, must stir 

The city ; yea, make the great world aware 

That they are in it ; for the mastery 

Of which they race and wrestle." — Knowles. 

Warrior! whose image on thy tomb. 

With shield and crested head, 
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom 

By the stain'd window shed, — 
The records of thy name and race 

Have faded from the stone, 
Yet through a cloud of years I trace 

What thou hast been and done. 

A banner from its flashing spear 

Flung out o'er many a fight; 
A war-cry ringing far and clear, 

And strong to turn the flight ; 
An arm that bravely bore the lance 

On for the holy shrine, 
A haughty heart and kingly glance — 

Chief! were not these things thine ? 

A lofty place, where leaders sate, 

Around the council board ; 
In festive halls a chair of state. 

When the blood-red wine was pour'd; 
A name that drew a prouder tone 

From herald, harp, and bard ; 
- — Surely these things were all thine own 

So hadst thou thy reward ! 



MRS. HEMANS. 47 

Woman ! whose sculptured form at rest 

By the armed knight is laid, 
With meek hands folded o'er thy breast, 

In matron robes array'd ; 
What was thy tale ? — Oh, gentle mate 

Of him the bold and free j 
Bound unto his victorious fate. 

What bard hath sung of thee ? 

He woo'd a bright and burning star ; 

Thine was the void, the gloom. 
The straining eye that followed far 

His oft receding plume ; 
The heart-sick listening while his steed 

Sent echoes on the breeze ; 
The pang — but when did fame take heed 

Of griefs obscure as these? 

Thy silent and secluded hours, 

Through many a lonely day. 
While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers, 

With spirit far away ; 
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him 

W^ho fought on Syrian plains ; 
Thy watchings till the torc'.i grew dim, — 

These fillno minstrel strains. 

A still sad life was thine ! — long years. 

With tasks unguerdon'd fraught. 
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears. 

Vigils of anxious thought; 
Prayers at the cross in fervor pour'd, 

Alms to the pilgrims given; 
O happy, happier than thy lord. 

In that lone path to heaven ! 



48 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



GERTRUDE. 

The Baron Von der "Wart, accused, though it is believed unjust- 
ly, as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, 
was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, 
throughout his last agonizing hours, with the most heroic devoted- 
ness. Her own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, 
are most affectingly described in a letter which she afterwards ad- 
dressed to a female friend, and which was published some years 
ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled Gertrude Von der Wart, or Fi- 
delity^unto Death. 

Dark lowers our fate, 
And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us ; 
But nothing, till that latest agony 
Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose 
This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house, 
In the terrific face of armed law. 
Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, 
I never will forsake thee. Joanna Baillie, 

Her hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised. 

The breeze threw back her hair; 
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed — 

All that she loved was there. 
The night was round her clear and cold. 

The holy heaven above, 
Its pale stars watching to behold 

The might of earthly love. 

" And bid me not depart," she cried, 

" My Rudolph, say not so I 
This is no time to quit thy side — 

Peace, peace, I cannot go. 



MRS. HEMANS. 49 

Hath the world aught for 7ne to fear, 

When death is on thy brow? 
The world ! what means it ? — mine is here 

I will not leave thee now. 

" I have been with thee in thine hour 

Of glory and of bliss ; 
Doubt not its memory's living power 

To strengthen me through this ! 
And thou, mine honor'd love and true, 

Bear on, bear nobly on ! 
We have the blessed heaven in view, 

Whose rest shall soon be won." 

And were not these high words to flow 

From woman's breaking heart? 
Through all that night of bitterest woe 

She bore her lofty part ; 
But, oh ! with such a glazing eye, 

With such a curdling cheek — 
Love ! love ! of mortal agony. 

Thou, only thou should'st speak! 

The wind rose high, — but with it rose 

Her voice, that he might hear : 
Perchance that dark hour brought repose 

To happy bosoms near. 
While she sat striving with despair 

Beside his tortured form, 
And pouring her deep soul in prayer 

Forth on the rushing storm. 

She wiped the death-damps from his brow, 

With her pale hands and soft. 
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low 

Had still'd his heart so oft. 
5 



50 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 
She bathed his lips with dew, 

And on his cheek such kisses press'd 
As hope and joy ne'er knew. 

Oh ! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, 

Enduring to the last ! 
She had her meed — one smile in death — 

And his worn spirit pass'd. 
While e'en as o'er a martyr's grave 

She knelt on that sad spot, 
And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave 

Strength to forsake it not I 



THE STRANGER'S HEART. 

The stranger's heart! oh, wound it not ! 
A yearning anguish is its lot ; 
In the green shadow of thy tree 
The stranger finds no rest with thee. 

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves 
Glad music round thy household eaves ; 
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone — 
The stranger's heart is with his own. 

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play 
A lovely sight at fall of day ; 
Then are the stranger's thoughts opprest — 
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast. 

Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend 
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend : 



MRS. HEMANS. 51 

Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim — 
Far, far are those who prayed with him. 

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land — 
The voices of thy kindred hand: — 
Oh, midst them all when blest thou art, 
Deal gently with the stranger's heart ! 



EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRL'S SCHOOL. 

Now in thy yoath beseech of Him, 

Who giveth, upbraiding not, 
That his light in thy heart become not dim, 

And^his love be nnforgot ; 
And thy God, in the darkest of days "will be 
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee. 

Bernard Barton. 

Hush! — 't is a holy hour — the quiet room 
Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 

A faint and starry radiance through the gloom, 
And the sweet stillness down on fair young heads, 

With all their clust'ring locks, untouched by care. 

And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayei". 

Gaze on — 'tis lovely ! — Childhood's lip and cheek, 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought — 

Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek 
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought 1 

Thou seest what Grief must nurture for the sky, 

What Death must fashion for Eternity. 

Oh! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest 
Lightly, when these pure orisons are done, 



52 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppress'd, 

Mid the dim folded leaves at set of sun. — 
Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies 
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. 

Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs 
Of Hope make melody where'er ye tread, 

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings 
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread — 

Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, 

Is woman's tenderness — how soon her woe ! 

Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep, 

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, 
And sumless riches, from affections deep. 

To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ! 
And to make idols, and to find them clay, 
And to bewail that worship — therefore pray ! 

Her lot is on you — to be found untir'd, 
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired. 
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain: 

Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 

And oh I to love through all things — therefore pray 1 

And take the thought of this calm vesper time, 
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, 

On through the dark days fading from their prime. 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight ! 

Earth will forsake — oh ! happy to have given 

Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven. 



MRS. HEMANS. 53 



WASHINGTON'S STATUE. 

(sent prom ENGLAND TO AMERICA.) 

Yes ! rear thy guardian Hero's form 
On thy proud soil, thou Western world ! 
A watcher through each sign of storm, 

O'er Freedom's flag unfurled. 

There, as before a shrine to bow, 
Bid thy true sons their children lead ; 
The language of that noble brow 

For all things good shall plead. 

The spirit reared in patriot fight. 

The Virtue born of Home and Hearth, 

There calmly throned, a holy light 

Shall pour o'er chainless earth. 

And let the work of England's hand. 
Sent through the blast and surges' roar. 
So girt with tranquil glory, stand 

For ages on thy shore I 

Such through all times the greetings be, 
That with the Atlantic billow sweep! 
Telling the Mighty and the Free 

Of Brothers o'er the Deep. 
5* 



54 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



THE VOICE OF SPRING. 

I COME, I come ! ye have call'd me long; 
I ccme o'er the mountains with light and song ! 
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, 
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves, opening as I pass. 

I have breathed on the south, and the chestnut flowers 
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers, 
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, 
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains ; 
— But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 

I have look'd o'er the hills of the stormy north, 

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth ; 

The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 

And the rein-deer bounds o'er the pastures free. 

And the pine has a fringe of softer green. 

And the moss looks bright, where my foot hath been. 

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, 
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky 3 
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time. 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
To the swan's wild note, by the Iceland lakes, 
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. 

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain ^ 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main. 



MRS. HEMANS. 55 

They are flashing down from the mountain brows, 
They are flinging spray o'er the forest-boughs, 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! 

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come ! 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye, 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ! 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, 
Come forth to the sunshine, — I may not stay. 

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen ! 
Away from the chamber and silent hearth, 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ! 
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 

But ye ! — ye are changed since ye met me last ! 
There is something bright from your features pass'd! 
There is that come over your brow and eye. 
Which speaks of the world where the flowers must die !. 
— Ye smile ! but your smile hath a dimness yet — 
Oh ! what have ye look'd on since last we met? 

Ye are changed, ye are changed ! — and I see not here 
All whom I saw in the vanished year ; 
There were graceful heads with their ringlets bright, 
Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light, 
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay 
No faint remembrance of dull decay I 

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head, 
As if for a banquet all earth were spread ; 
There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky, 
And had not a sound of mortality ! 



56 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Are they gone 1 is their mirth from [the mountains pass'd 1 

— Ye have look'd on death since ye met me last! 

I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now ; 
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow ! 
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace, 
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race ; 
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown, 
They are gone from amongst you in silence down! 

They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair ; 
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! 

— But I know of a land Avhere there falls no blight, 
I shall find them there with their eyes of light ! 
Where Death 'midst the bloom of the morn may dwell : 
I tarry no longer — farewell, farewell ! 

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne ; 

Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ! 

For me, I depart to a brighter shore; 

Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more. 

I go where the loved who have left you dwell, 

And the flowers are not death's — fare ye well, farewell I 



MRS. HEMANS. 57 



THE HEBREW MOTHER. 

The moon was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain, 

When a young mother, with her first-born, thence 

Went up to Zion ; for the boy was vow'd 

Unto the Temple service: — by the hand 

She led him, and her silent soul, the Avhile, 

Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye 

Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think 

That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers, 

To bring before her God. So pass'd they on, 

O'er Judah's hills ; and wheresoe'er the leaves 

Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, 

Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs. 

With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue 

Of Syria's heaven, she paused that he might rest; 

Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep 

That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and watch 

The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose, 

As at a red flower's heart. And where a fount 

Lay like a twilight star 'midst palmy shades, 

Making its bank green gems along the wild, 

There, too, she linger'd, from the diamond wave 

DraAving bright water for his rosy lips, 

And softly parting clusters of jet curls 

To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reach'd. 

The Earth's One Sanctuary — and rapture hush'd 

Her bosom, as before her, through the day. 

It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd 

In light, like floating gold. But when that hour 

Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy 

Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye 



58 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear 
Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round her arm 
Clung even as joy clings — the deep spring-tide 
Of nature then swell'd high, and o'er her child 
Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds 
Of weeping and sad song. — " Alas ! " she cried, 

" Alas ! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me ; 
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes. 

And now fond thoughts arise, 
And silver cords again to earth have won me ; 
And like a vine thou claspestmy full heart — 

How shall I hence depart? 

"How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing 
So late, along the mountains, at my side ? 

And I, in joyous pride, 
By every place of flowers my course delaying, 
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair. 

Beholding thee so fair ! 

" And oh ! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, 
Will it not seem as if the sunny day 

Turn'd from its door away? 
While through its chambers wandering weary-hearted, 
I languish for thy voice, which past me still, 

Went like a singing rill. 

" Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, 
When from the fount at evening I return, 

With the full water-urn ; 
Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me, 
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake, 

And watch for thy dear sake. 



MRS. HEMANS. 59 

"And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, 
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed ? 

Wilt thou not vainly spread 
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, 
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, 

A cry which none shall hear? 

" What have I said, my child ? — Will He not hear thee, 
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest ? 

Shall he not guard thy rest, 
And in the hush of holy midnight near thee. 
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy ? — 

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy. 

" I give thee to thy God — the God that gave thee, 
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart ! 

And precious as thou art. 
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, 
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled ! 

And thou shalt be His child. 

" Therefore, farewell ! — I go, my soul may fail me, 
As the hart panteth for the water-brooks, 

Yearning for thy sweet looks, — 
But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me ; 
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, 

The Rock of Strength. —Farewell 1 



SABBATH SONNET. 

How many blessed groups this hour are bending 
Through England's primrose meadow-paths their way 
Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending, 
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day l 



60 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

The halls, from old heroic ages gray, 
Pour their fair children forth ; and hamlets low, 
With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds play. 
Send out their inmates in a happy flow, 
Like a free vernal stream. — I may not tread 
With them those pathways, — to the feverish bed 
Of sickness bound; — yet oh, my God ! I bless 
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd 
My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd 
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness. 



THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS. * 

Nobly thy song, O minstrel ! rush'd to meet 
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast, 
With darkness round him as a mantle cast. 

And cherubim to waft his flying seat. 

Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet, 
With trumpet voice thy spirit called aloud, 

And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat, 
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud ; 

But far more gloriously to earth made known. 

By that high strain, than by the thunder's tone. 
Than flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll ; 

Jehovah spoke through the inbreathing fire, 

Nature's vast realms forever to inspire, 
With the deep worship of a living soul. 

Dublin, AjJril, 1835. 

*This and the preceding, are the two last strains, the dying 
strains of this sweet Poetess. Truly her mind seemed breathing 
inspired notes, while her pure spirit was stealing gently away to 
join the angelic choir in that "better land, " where " sorrow and 
death may not enter." 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 



* 



If the genius of Mrs. Hemans is best characterized by 
the " Glorious Rose," this "sister of Shakspeare," as she 
has been significantly styled, may be likened to the splen- 
did Aloe flower, that opens but once in a century; so rare, 
indeed, that it is regarded rather as a wonder, than a bless- 
ing- 

The power of Miss Baillie's genius seems concentrated 
in one burning ray — the knowledge of the human heart. 
She has illustrated this knowledge, with the cool judgment 
of the philosopher, and the pure warm feelings of the wo- 
man, in her celebrated Plays on the Passions. We have 
sometimes doubted, whether, In selecting the Drama as her 
path of literature, she judged wisely; we have thought 
that as an essayist or a novelist she might have made her 
great talents more effective in that improvement of society 
which she seems to have had so deeply at heart, and have 
won for herself, if not so bright a wreath of fame, a more 
extensive and more popular influence. 

In dramatic composition, however, Joanna Baillie is un- 
rivalled by any female writer; and she is the only woman 

* There is an American edition of the " complete poetical works 
of Miss Baillie," published at Philadelphia, in one large elegant 
volume. This, however, does not comprise her last ** Plays on the 
Passions." 

6 



62 THE LADIES' WREATH, 

whose genius, as displayed in her works, appears compe- 
tent to the production of an Epic poem. Would that she 
had attempted this. 

In the portraiture of female characters, and the exhibi- 
tion of feminine virtues, she is very happy ; and we regret 
that in the limited space to which our selections must he 
confined, we cannot introduce those beautiful creations of 
her fancy, Jane de Montfort, Valeria and Helen. 

Miss Baillie began her literary career in early life, and 
has pursued it with unremitted ardor. She bestows great 
care on the revision of her productions, thus setting an ex- 
cellent example of patience and industry to her sex. She 
is now no longer young, but is still actively engaged in her 
literary pursuits. During the past year, she has given to 
the world another volume of "Plays on the Passions," 
which is highly commended by the English critics. 

Respecting the private character of this extraordinary 
woman, we have but few incidents to communicate. The 
sacred cabinet of domestic life may not be opened, till 
death has sealed the record completed. She is sister of the 
celebrated Dr. Baillie, and has passed much of her time m 
his family. Her personal appearance is thus described by 
an American gentleman, who visited her in, '27 : — 

'•Joanna Baillie is a small woman, very erect, easy and 
natural, with a remarkable fine face. In manner she is 
self-possessed, and very gentle ; you never think of her 
age, and only wonder, after you have come away, how 
it should happen that you did not think of it. I was told 
by those who knew her that she was over seventy — yet I 
could hardly believe them. She appeared about 55 or 60. 
Her gray hair was parted carefully and smoothly over her 
forehead, and her general air was that of something very in- 
telligent, tranquil, spiritualized and quakerish. I thought 
her very amiable, and in the overflowing of her affectionate 
veneration for her brother. Dr. Baillie, I detected the germ 
of that extraordinary tragedy, de Montfort." 



JOANNA BAILLIE; 63 



SKETCHES FROM THE LEGEND OF LADY 
GRISELD BAILLIE. 

When, sapient, dauntless, strong heroic man. 

Our busy thoughts thy noble nature scan, 

Whose active mind, its hidden cell within, 

Frames that from which the mightiest works begin j 

Whose secret thoughts are light to ages lending, 

Whose potent arm is right and life defending 

For helpless thousands, all on one high soul depending: — 

We pause delighted with the fair survey, 

And haply in our wistful musings say,- 

What mate to match this noble work of heaven, 

Hath the all wise and mighty Master given? 

One gifted like himself, whose head devises 

High things, whose soul at sound of battle rises ; 

Who with glaiv'd hand will thro' armed squadrons ride, 

And, death confronting, combat by his side ; 

Will share with equal wisdom grave debate. 

And all the cares of chieftain, kingly state? 

Ay, such, I trow, in female form hath been 

Of olden times, and may again be seen, 

When cares of empire, or strong impulse swell 

The generous breast, and to high deeds impel ; 

For who can these as meaner times upbraid. 

Who think of Saragossa's valiant maid ? 

But she of gentle nature, softer, dearer, 

Of daily life the active kindly cheerer ; 

With generous bosom, age, or childhood shielding, 

And in the storms of life tho' moved, unyielding ; 

Strength in her gentleness, hope in her sorrow. 

Whose darkest hours some ray of brightness borrow 

From better days to come, whose meek devotion 



64 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Calms every wayward passion's wild commotion ; 

In want and suffering, soothing, useful, sprightly, 

Bearing the press of evil hap so lightly, 

Till evil's self seems its strong hold betraying 

To the sweet witch'ry of such winsome playing ; 

Bold from affection, if by nature fearful, 

With varying brow, sad, tender, anxious, cheerful, — 

This is meet partner for the loftiest mind, 

With crown or helmet graced, — yea, this is womankind i 

Come ye whose grateful memory retains 

Dear recollection of Aer tender pains, 

To whom your oft-conn'd lesson, daily said, 

With kiss and cheering praises was repaid j 

To gain whose smile, to shun whose mild rebuke, 

Your irksome task was learned in silent nook, 

Tho' truant thoughts the while, your lot exchanging 

With freer elves, were wood and meadow ranging ; — 

And ye, who best the faithful virtues know. 

Of a link'd partner, tried in weal and woe, 

Like the slight willow, now aloft, now bending, 

But, still unbroken, with the blast contending, 

Whose very look call'd virtuous vigor forth, 

Compelling you to match her noble worth; — 

And ye who in a sister's modest praise, 

Feel manly pride, and think of other days. 

Pleased that the playmate of your native home 

Hath in her prime an honored name become ; — 

And ye, who in a duteous child have known 

A daughter, help-mate, sister, blent in one, 

From whose dear hand which to no hireling leaves 

Its task of love, your age sweet aid receives ; 

Who reckless marks youths' waning faded hue. 

And thinks her bloom well spent, when spent for you; — 

Come all, whose thoughts such dear remembrance bearj. 

And to my short and faithful lay give ear. 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 65 



THE SISTER. 

There is a sight all hearts beguiling — 

A youthful mother to her infatit smiling, 

Who with spread arms and dancing feet, 

And cooing voice, returns its answer sweet. 

Who does not love to see the grandame mild, 

Lesson with yearning looks the list'ning child ? 

But ' tis a thing of saintlier nature, 

Amidst her friends of pigmy stature, 

To see the maid in youth's fair bloom, 

A guardian sister's charge assume, 

And, like a touch of angel's bliss 

Receive from each its grateful kiss. — 

To see them, when their hour of love is past, 

Aside their grave demeanor cast; 

With her in mimic war they wrestle ; 

Beneath her twisted robe they nestle ; 

Upon her glowing cheek they revel, 

Low bended to their tiny level ; 

While oft, her lovely neck bestriding. 

Crows some arch imp, like huntsman riding. 

This is a sight the coldest heart may feel. 

To make down rugged cheeks the kindly tear to steal. 



THE WIFE. 

Their long-tried faith in honor plighted, 
They were a pair by heaven united, 
Whose wedded love, thro' lengthened years. 
The trace of early fondness wears. 
Her heart first guessed his doubtful choice, 
Her ear first caught his distant voice, 
And from afar her wistful eye 
Would first his graceful form descry. 
6* 



66 THE LADIES' WREATH 

Even when he hied him forth to meet 
The open air in lawn or street. 

She to her casement went, 
And after him, with smile so sweet, 

Her look of blessing sent. 
The heart's affection — secret thing I 
Is like the cleft-rock's ceaseless spring, 
Which free and independent flows 
Of summer rains or winter snows. 
The fox-glove from its side may fall, 

The heath-hloom fade, or moss flower white, 
But still its runlet, bright tho' small, 

Will issue sweetly to the light. 



THE WIDOW. 

With her and her good lord, who still 

Sweet union held of mated will. 

Years passed away with lightsome speed ; 

But oh ! their bands of bliss at length were riven, 
And she was clothed in widow's sable weed, 

— Submitting to the will of Heaven. 
And then a prosperous race of children good 
And tender, round their noble mother stood. 
And she the while, cheered with their pious love. 
Waited her welcome summons from above. 
But whatsoe'er the weal or woe 
That Heaven across her lot might throw. 
Full well her Christian spirit knew 
Its path of virtue straight and true. 
Good, tender, generous, firm, and sage, 
Through grief and gladness, shade and sheen. 
As fortune changed life's motley scene, 
Thus passed she on to reverend age. 
And when the heavenly summons came, 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 67 

Her spirit from its mortal frame, 

And weight of mortal cares to free. 

It was a blessed sight to see. 

The parting saint her state of honor keeping, 

In gifted, dauntless faith, whilst round her, weeping, 

Her children's children mourned on bended knee. 



CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 

Is there a man, that from some lofty steep, 

Views in his wide survey the boundless deep. 

When its vast waters, lined with sun and shade, 

Wave beyond wave, in seried distance, fade 

To the pale sky; — or views it, dimly seen. 

The shifting screens of drifted mist between. 

As the huge cloud dilates its sable form. 

When grandly curtain'd by th^ approaching storm, — 

Who feels not his aw'd soul with wonder rise 

To Him whose power created sea and skies. 

Mountains and deserts, giving to the sight 

The wonders of the day and of the night? 

But let some fleet be seen in warlike pride, 

Whose stately ships the restless billows ride. 

While each, Avith lofty masts and brightening sheen 

Of fair spread sails, moves like a vested Q,ueen ; — 

Or rather, be some distant bark, astray. 

Seen like a pilgrim on his lonely way. 

Holding its steady course from port and shore, 

A form distinct, a speck, and seen no more, — 

How doth the pride, the sympathy, the flame, 

Of human feeling stir his thrilling frame ? 

"O Thou! Avhose mandate dust inert obey'd, 

" What is this creature man whom thou hast made ? " 



68 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

On Palos' shore, whose crowded strand 
Bore priests and nobles of the land, 
And rustic hinds and townsmen trim, 
And harness'd soldiers stern and grim. 
And lowly maids and dames of pride, 
And infants by their mother's side, — 
The boldest Seaman stood that e'er 
Did bark or ship through tempest steer ; 
And wise as bold, and good as wise ; 
The magnet of a thousand eyes, 
That on his form and features cast, 
His noble mien and simple guise. 
In wonder seem'd to look their last. 
A form which conscious worth is gracing, 
A face where hope, the lines effacing. 
Of thought and care, bestow'd in truth. 
To the quick eyes' imperfect tracing 
The look and air of youth. 

Who, in his lofty gait, and high 

Expression of th' enlighten'd eye. 

Had recogniz'd, in that bright hour. 

The disappointed suppliant of dull power, 

Who had in vain of states and kings desired 

The pittance for his vast emprise required? — 

The patient sage, who, by his lamp's faint light, 

O'er chart and map spent the long silent night? — 

The man who meekly fortune's buffets bore, 

Trusting in One alone, whom heaven and earth adore ? 

Another world is in his mind, 

Peopled with creatures of his kind, 

With hearts to feel, with minds to soar, 

Thoughts to consider and explore ; 

Souls, who might find from trespass shriven^ 

Virtue on earth and joy in heaven. 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 69 

" That power divine, whom storms obey," 

(Whisper'd his heart,) a leading star. 

Will guide him on his blessed way; 

Brothers to join by fate divided far. 

Vain thoughts ! which Heaven doth but ordain 

In part to be, the rest, alas ! how vain ! 

But hath there liv'd of mortal mould. 

Whose fortunes with his thoughts could hold 

An even race? Earth's greatest son 

That e'er earn'd fame, or empire won. 

Hath but fulfill'd, within a narrow scope, 

A stinted portion of his ample hope. 

With heavy sigh and look depressed. 

The greatest men will sometimes hear 

The story of their acts address'd 

To the young stranger's wond'ring ear. 

And check the half-swoln tear. 

Is it or modesty or pride 

Which may not open praise abide ? 

No ; read his inward thoughts : they tell. 

His deeds of fame he prizes well. 

But ah! they in his fancy stand. 

As relics of a blighted band, 

Who, lost to man's approving sight. 

Have perish'd in the gloom of night, 

Ere yet the glorious light of day 

Had glitter'd on their bright array. 

His mightiest feat had once another^ 

Of high imagination born, — 

A loftier and a nobler brother, 

From dear existence torn; 

And she for those, who are not, steeps 

Her soul in woe, — like Rachel, weeps. 



70 THE LADIES' WREATH, 



THE TOMB OF COLUMBUS. 

O ! WHO shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name ! 
Whilst in that sound there is a charm 
The nerve to brace, the heart to warm, 
As, thinking of the mighty dead. 
The young, from slothful couch will start, 
And vow, with lifted hands outspread. 
Like them to act a noble part? 

O I who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name ! 
When, but for those, our mighty dead, 
All ages past, a blank would be, 
Sunk in oblivion's murky bed, — 
A desert bare, a shipless sea? 
They are the distant objects seen, — 
The lofty marks of what hath been. 

O! who shall lightly say that fame 
Is nothing but an empty name ! 
When mem'ry of the mighty dead 
To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye 
The brightest rays of cheering shed. 
That point to immortality? 

A twinkling speck, but fix'd and bright. 

To guide us thro' the dreary night, 

Each hero shines, and lures the soul 

To gain the distant happy goal. 

For is there one who, musing o'er the grave 

Where lies interr'd the good, the wise, the brave, 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 71 

Can poorly think, beneath the mould'ring heap, 

That noble being shall forever sleep ? 

No; saith the gen'rous heart, and proudly swells, — 

" Tho' his cered corse lies here, with God his spirit dwells." 



PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM, 

Insensible to high heroic deeds, 

Is there a spirit clothed in mortal weeds, 

Who at the Patriot's moving story. 

Devoted to his country's good. 

Devoted to his country's glory, 

Shedding for freemen's rights his generous blood. — 

List'neth not Avith breath heaved high, 

Gluiv'ring nerve, and glistening eye. 

Feeling within a spark of heavenly flame, 

That with the hero's worth may humble kindred claim? 

If such there be, still let him plod 

On the dull foggy paths of care. 

Nor raise his eyes from the dank sod 

To view creation fair: 

What boots to him the wondrous works of God ? 

His soul with brutal things hath ta'en its earthly lair. 

*********** 

Oh ! who so base as not to feel 

The pride of freedom once enjoy 'd, 

Tho' hostile gold or hostile steel 

Have long that bliss destroy'd ? 

The meanest drudge will sometimes vaunt 

Of independent sires, who bore 

Names known to fame in days of yore, 

'Spite of the smiling stranger's taunt; 

But, recent freedom lost — what heart 

Can bear the humbling thought — the quick'ning, mad'ning 
smart ? 



72 THE LADIES' WREATH, 



THE ELDEN TREE. 

A FEAST was spread in the Baron's hall, 
And loud was the merry sound, 

As minstrels played at lady's call, 
And the cup went sparkling round. 

For gentle dames sat there, I trow. 

By men of mickle might, 
And many a chief with dark-red brow, 

And many a burly knight. 

Each had fought in war's grim ranks, 

And some on the surgy sea, 
And some on Jordan's sacred banks. 

For the cause of Christentie. 

But who thinks now of blood or strife. 

Or Moorish or Paynim foe ? 
Their eyes beam bright with social life. 

And their hearts with kindness glow. 

y^ ^ <^ y^ y^ ^ 

Aye, certes, 'tis an hour of glee. 
For the Baron himself doth smile. 

And nods his head right cheerily. 
And quaffs his cup the while. 

What recks he now of midnight fear. 
Or the night-wind's dismal moan ? 

As it tosses the boughs of that Elden Tree, 
Which he thinketh so oft upon? 

Long years have past since a deed was done, 
By its doer only seen, 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 73 

And there lives not a man beneath the sun, 
Who wotteth that deed hath been. 

So gay was he, so gay were all. 

They mark'd not the growing gloomy 

Nor wist they how the dark'ning hall 
Lower'd like the close of doom. 

Dull grew the goblet's sheen, and grim 

The features of every guest, 
And colorless banners aloft hung dim. 

Like the clouds of the drizzly west. 

Hath time pass'd then so swift of pace? 

Is this the twilight grey ? 
A flash of light pass'd thro' the place. 

Like the glaring noon of day. 

Fierce glanced the momentarybl aze 

O'er all the gallant train, 
And each visage pale, with dazzled gaze, 

Was seen and lost again. 

jp ^ 3> *> yf' ^ 

At length, in the waning tempest's fall. 

As light from the welkin broke, 
A frighten'd man rush'd thro' the hall, 

And words to the Baron spoke. 

" The thunder hath stricken your tree so fair, 

" Its roots on green-sward lie," — 
" What tree ? " — " The Elden planted there 

" Some thirty years gone by." 

"And wherefore starest thou on me so, 

"With a face so ghastly wild?" — 
" White bones are found in the mould below, 

"Like the bones of a stripling child." 
7 



74 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Pale he became as the shrouded dead, 

And his eye-balls fix'd as stone j 
And down on his bosom dropp'd his head. 

And he utter'd a stifled groan. 

Then from the board, each guest amazed, 

Sprang up, and curiously 
Upon his sudden misery gazed. 

And wonder'd what might be. 

Out spoke the ancient seneschal, 

" I pray ye stand apart, 
"Both gentle dames and nobles all, 

"This grief is at his heart. 

"Go, call St. Cuthbert's monk with speed, 
" And let him be quickly shriven, 

"And fetch ye a leech for his body's need, 
"To dight him for earth or heaven." 

"No, fetch me a priest," the Baron said, 
In a voice that seem'd uttered with pain ; 

And he shudder'd and shrunk, as he faintly bade 
His noble guests remain. 

"Heaven's eye each secret deed doth scan, 
" Heaven's justice all should fear : 

"What I confess to the holy man, 
"Both Heaven and you shall hear." 

And soon St. Cuthbert's monk stood by, 

With visage sad but sweet, 
And cast on the Baron a piteous eye, 

And the Baron knelt low at his feet. 

" Father I I have done a deed 

" Which God alone did know ; 
" A brother's blood these hands have shed, 

" With many a fiend-like blow : 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 75 

'' For fiends lent strength like a powerful charm, 

" And my youthful breast impell'd, 
"And I laugh'd to see beneath my arm 

"The sickly stripling quell'd. 

•' A mattock from its pit I ook, 

"Dug deep for the Elden Tree, 
"And I tempted the youth therein to look 

" Some curious sight to see, 

" The woodmen to their meal were gone, 

" And ere they return'd again, 
" I had planted that tree with my strength alone, 

" O'er the body of the slain, 

" Ah I gladly smiled my Father then, 

" And seldom he smiled on me, 
" When he heard that my skill, like the skill of men, 

"Had planted the Elden Tree. 

" But where was his eldest son so dear, 

" Who nearest his heart had been ? 
" They sought him far, they sought him near, 

" But the boy no more was seen. 

" And thus his life and lands he lost, 

" And his Father's love beside : 
" The thought that ever rankled most 

" In this heart of secret pride. 

" Ah ! could the partial parent wot 

" The cruel pang he gives, 
"To the child neglected and forgot, 

" Who under his cold eye lives I 

"His elder rights did my envy move, 
" These lands and their princely hall ; 

"But it was our Father's partial love, 
" I envy'd him most of all." 



76 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



TO A CHILD. 

Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,. 

And curly pate and merry eye, 
And arm and shoulders round and sleek, 

And soft and fair ? thou urchin sly ! 

What boots it who, with sweet caresses, 
First call'd thee his, or squire or hind? — 

For thou in every wight that passes, 
Dost now a friendly play-mate find. 

Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning, 

As fringed eye-lids rise and fall. 
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running, — 

'Tis infantine coquetry all ! 

But far afield thou hast not flown, 

With mocks and threats half-lisp'd, half-spoken ; 
I feel thee pulling at my gown, 

Of right good- will thy simple token. 

And thou must laugh and wrestle too, 

A mimic warfare with me waging, 
To make, as wily lovers do. 

Thy after kindness more engaging. 

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself. 
And new-cropt daises are thy treasure : 

I'd gladly part with worldly pelf. 

To taste again thy youthful pleasure. 

But yet for all thy merry look. 

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is comings, 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 11 

When thou shalt sit ia cheerless nook, 
The weary spell or horn book thumbing. 

Well ; let it be ! thro' weal and woe, 
Thou know'st not now thy future range : 

Life is a motley, shifting show, 

And thou a thing of hope and change. 



SELECTIONS. 

[from DE MQNfTFOriT: A TRAGEEY.j 

De Montford. Yes, it is ever thus. Undo that veil, 
And give thy count'nance to the cheerful light. 
Men now all soft, and female beauty scorn, 
And mock the gentle cares which aim to please. 
It is most terrible I undo thy veil, 
And think of him no more. 

Jane. I know it well, even to a proverb grown, 
Is lovers' faith, and I had borne such slight: 
But he, who has, alas ! forsaken me. 
Was the companion of my early days, 
My cradle's mate, mine infant play-fellow. 
Within our op'ning minds, with riper years, 
The love of praise and gen'rous virtue sprung: 
Thro' varied life our pride, our joys were one; 
At the same tale we wept : he is my brother. 

De Mon. And he forsook thee ? — No, I dare not curse him: 
My heart upbraids me with a crime like his. 

Jane. Ah ! do not thus distress a feeling heart. 
All sisters are not to the soul entwin'd 
With equal bands; thine has not watch'd for thee. 
Wept for thee, cheer'd thee, shar'd thy weal and woe, 
As I have done for him. 
7* 



78 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

De Mon. {eagerly.) Ah! has she not? 
By heav'n ! the sum of all thy kindly deeds, 
Were but as chaff pois'd against massy gold, 
Compar'd to that which I do owe her love. 
Oh pardon me ! I msan not ta offend — 
I am too warm — but she of whom I speak 
Is the dear sister of my earliest love ; 
In noble, virtuous worth to none a second : 
And tho' behind those sable folds were hid 
As fair a face as ever Avoman own'd, 
Still would I say she is as fair as thou. 
How oft amidst the beauty-blazing throng, 
I've proudly to th' inquiring stranger told 
Her name and lineage ! yet within her house, 
The virgin mother of an orphan race. 
Her dying parents left, this noble woman 
Did, like a Roman matron, proudly sit. 
Despising all the blandishments of love ; 
Whilst many a youth his hopeless love conceal'd. 
Or humbly distant, woo'd her like a queen. 
Forgive, I pray you ! O forgive this boasting; 
In faith ! I mean you no discourtesy. 



TRUE LOVE. 

[from henriquez : a tragedy.] 

Antonio. O blessed words ! my dear, my generous love \ 
My heart throbs at the thought, but cannot thank thee. 
And thou wilt follow me and share my fortune, 
Or good or ill ! 

Ah ! what of good can with a skulking out-law 
In his far wanderings, or his secret haunts. 
E'er be ?, O no I th.ou shalt not follow me. 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 79 

Mencia. Good may be found for faithful, virtuous love, 
111 every spot; and for the wand'ring out-law. 
The very siveetest nooks o' the earth are his. 
And be his passing home the goatherd's shed, 
The woodman's branchy hut, or fishers' cove, 
Whose pebbly threshold by the rippling tide 
Is softly washed, he may contented live, 
Ay, thankfully ; fed like the fowls of heaven 
With daily food sent by a Father's hand. 

Ant. Thou shalt not follow me, nor will I fly»^ 
Sev^er'd from thee I will not live, sweet love; 
Nor shalt thou be the mate of one disgraced. 
And by the good disowned. Here I'll remain. 
And Heav^en will work for me a fair deliverance. 

DESPAIR. 

Henriquez. The morn ! and what have I to do with, 
morn ? 
The redd'ning sky, the smoking camp, the stir 
Of tented sleepers rousing to the call. 
The snorting steed, in harness newly dight, 
Did please my fancy once. Ay, and the sweetness 
Of my still native woods, when through the mist. 
They showed at early dawn their stately oaks, 
Whose dark'ning forms did gradually appear 
Like slow approaching friends, known doubtfully. 
These pleased me once in better days ; but now 
My very soul within me is abhorrent 
Of every pleasant thing ; and that which cheers 
The stirring soldier or the waking hind. 
That which the traveller blesses, and the child 
Greets with a shout of joy, as from the door 
Of his pent cot he issues to the air, 
Does but increase my misery. — 
I loathe the light of heaven : let the night, 
The hideous, unblessed night, close o'er me now. 
And close forevej !. 



HANNAH MORE.^ 



The long and brilliant literar}^ career of Mrs. More has 
closed, and her " Life," and " Works," are the invaluable 
possession of the Christian public. She needs no eulogism 
— she has built her own monument ! 

Probably no woman ever did so much to promote the 
cause of moral and social improvement, among all classes 
of people, as this excellent lady has done; certainly no one 
ever more consistently subserved the best interests of her 
own sex. 

It is not, however, in her poetry that the high character 
of her mind is displayed to the greatest advantage. She 
possessed more talent than genius, piore judgment than 
imagination; and though. her poetry is always respectable, 
and in its sentiment elevated, yet it seldom rises to the 
lofty sublimity which astonishes the reader, as it were, 
with the opening of a new world of beauty and bold imag- 
ery — nor does it exhibit the brilliancy or breathe the pathos 
which takes captive the heart and fancy. It is good^ in ev- 
ery quality, and seldom merits a higher epithet. 

But Mrs. More did not make poetry her pursuit. She 
summoned the muses to her aid, chiefly to promote some 

* Mrs. More's writings have been published in a variety of forras. 
The best American edition is that of the Harpers', comprising her 
" Life and Correspondence," and all her " Literary Works." 



HANNAH MORE. 81 

useful or benevolent object in which she was engaged; — 
" The Search after Happiness," for instance, was written 
for the benefit of the young ladies at her sister's boarding 
school; and the "Ballads" and "Tales" to unfold and 
illustrate religious and moral truths to the poor, ignorant 
peasantry of her own country. 

Many of her Poems were written when she was quite 
young, and to the youthful poetess she will be a safe model 
to study, because her sentiments are peculiarly calculated 
to incite a desire for excellence of character, which is far 
more necessary to female happiness, and much more easily 
attainable than eminence in poetry. 

We place her honored name in our Wreath to be an 
amulet as well as an ornament; and if it be not properly 
designated by a flower, it is because it deserves something 
less perishable — it is the evergreen Pine, the emblem of 
piety and philosophy, whose /eq/ time will not have power 
to wither — or that divine " Haemony," whose root, trans- 
planted to a more blessed clime, 

" Bears a bright golden flower." 

The "Life" of this illustrious woman is a lesson which 
our sex can hardly value too highly. We cannot give even 
the outline of a career, noble as it was useful and active ; 
but as the volumes of her " Memoirs and Correspondence " 
are accessible to all, we need merely give the most im- 
portant data. Mrs. More was born in the year 1745. She 
was the youngest but one of the five daughters of Mr. Jacob 
More of Stapleton, in the county of Gloucester. His care- 
ful and conscientious education of his children was greatly 
blessed, and has secured for them all, but particularly for 
one, an enduring record in the hearts of the pious and in- 
telligent. Hannah early exhibited traits of genius, and 
that disposition to do good, which continued the ruling pas- 
sion of her life. It Avas this philanthropy which incited 
her to undertake most of her varied writings. Benevolence 



82 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

was, in truth, the spontaneous sentiment of her soul, and 
this, guided and chastened by Christian principle, was as 
effective in its promptings to activity as ever the most self- 
ish personal ambition has proved in the votaries of the 
world. And such examples are inestimable for our sex. 
This benignity of disposition she retained to the last, and 
it diffused the interest of youth around her winter of exist- 
ence. An American gentleman, who visited her in 1824, 
when she was 79 years old, thus describes her appearance. — 

"Mrs. More is rather short, but otherwise of an usual 
size, with a face that never could have been handsome, and 
never other than agreeable. She has the brightest and 
most intellectual eye that I ever saw in an aged person ; it 
was as clear, and seemed as fully awake with mind and 
soul, as if it had but lately opened on a world full of nov- 
elty. The whole of her face was strongly characterized by 
cheerfulness. I had once thought the world was deficient 
in a knowledge of the means of rendering old age agreea- 
ble, and it crossed my mind that I would suggest to Mrs. 
More that she might, better than any person, supply the 
deficiency. But it was better than a volume on this sub- 
ject, to see her. I understand the whole art of making old 
age peaceful and happy at a glance. It is only to exert our 
talents in the cause of virtue as she has done, and in age 
be like her. It was a strong lecture, and I would never 
forget it." 

She died September 1833, in the eighty-ninth year of her 
age. 

" How shall Ave mourn thee? — With a lofty trust, 
Our life's immortal birthright from above ! 

With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just, 

Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love. 

And yet can weep ! — for nature thus deplores 

The friend that leaves us, though for happier shores." 



HANNAH MORE. 83 



CONVERSATION. 

Hail, Conversation, heavenly fair, 
Thou bliss of life, and balm of care ! 
Still may thy gentle reign extend, 
And Taste with Wit and Science blend. 
Soft polisher of rugged man ! 
Refiner of the social plan ! 
For thee, blest solace of his toil! 
The sage consumes the midnight oil, 
And keeps late vigils, to produce 
Materials for thy future use ; 
Calls forth the else neglected knowledge 
Of school, of travel, and of college. 

Let Education's moral mint 
The noblest images imprint; 
Let Taste her curious touchstone hold, 
To try if standard be the gold; 
But 'tis thy commerce, Conversation, 
Must give it use by circulation ; 
That noblest commerce of mankind, 
Whose precious merchandise is Mind, 

yfi y^ 7^ y^ ^ H* 

O'er books the mind inactive lies, — 
Books, the mind's food, not exercise ! 
Her vigorous wings she scarcely feels, 
'Till use the latent strength reveals; 
Her slumbering energies called forth, 
She rises, conscious of her worth ; 
And at her new-found powers elated, 
Thinks them not roused, but new created. 



84 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Enlightened spirits ! you who know 
What charms from polished converse flow. 
Speak, for you can, the pure delight 
When kindling sympathies unite; 
When correspondent tastes impart 
Communion sweet from heart to heart; 
You ne'er the cold gradations need 
Which vulgar souls to union lead; 
No dry discussion to unfold 
The meaning, caught ere well 'tis told ; 
In taste, in learning, wit, or science, 
Still kindled souls demand alliance; 
Each in the other joys to find 
The image answering to his mind. 

But sparks electric only strike 
On souls electrical alike ; 
The flash of intellect expires. 
Unless it meet congenial fires ; 
What lively pleasure to divine. 
The thought implied, the hinted line, 
To feel Allusions' artful force. 
And trace the image to its source ! 
duick Memory blends her scattered rays. 
Till Fancy kindles at the blaze ; 
The works of ages start to view, 
And ancient Wit elicits new. 

***** 54= 

But let the lettered and the fair, 
And, chiefly, let the wit beware ; 
You, whose warm spirits never fail, 
Forgive the hint which ends my tale. 
O shun the peril which attends 
On wit, on warmth, and heed your friends — 
Though Science nursed you in her bowers, 
The' Fancy crown your brow with flowers. 



HANNAH MORE. 85 

Each thought, tho' bright Invention fill, 

Tho' Attic bees each word distil, 

Yet if one gracious power refuse 

Her gentle influence to infuse, — 

If she withhold her magic spell, 

Nor in the social circle dwell. 

In vain shall listening crowds approve ; 

They '11 praise you, but they will not love. 

What is this power, you're loth to mention. 
This charm, this witchcraft? 'Tis Attention! 
Mute angel, yes ; thy looks dispense 
The silence of intelligence: 
Thy graceful form I well discern, 
In act to listen and to learn; 
'Tis thou for talents shall obtain 
That pardon Wit would hope in vain ; 
Thy wondrous power, thy secret charm, 
Shall Envy of her sting disarm; 
Thy silent flattery soothes our spirit, 
And we forgive eclipsing merit; 
Our jealous souls no longer burn, 
Nor hate thee, tho' thou shine in turn ; 
The sweet atonement screens the fault, 
And love and praise are cheaply bought. 

With mild complacency to hear, 
Tho' somewhat long the tale appear — 
The dull relation to attend. 
Which mars the story you could mend ; 
'Tis more than wit — 'tis moral beauty, 
'Tis pleasure rising out of duty. 
Nor vainly think, the time you waste, 
When temper triumphs over taste. 
8 



86 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



SENSIBILITY. 



Sweet Sensibility 1 thou keen delight! 
Unprompted moral ! sudden sense of right I 
Perception exquisite 1 fair Virtue's seed ! 
Thou quick precursor of the liberal deed i 
Thou hasty conscience ! reason's blushing morn I 
Instinctive kindness ere reflection's born ! 
Prompt sense of equity ! to thee belongs 
The swift redress of unexamined wrongs ! 
Eager to serve, the cause perhaps untried, 
But always apt to choose the suflf 'ring side ! 
To those who know thee not, no words can paint, 
And those who know thee, know all words are faint I 

She does not feel thy power who boasts thy flame, 
And rounds her every period with thy name ; 
Nor she who vents her disproportioned sighs 
With pining Lesbia when her sparrow dies : 
Nor she who melts when hapless Shore expires. 
While real misery unrelieved retires ! 
Who thinks feigned sorrows all her tears deserve, 
And weeps o'er Werter while her children starve. 

As words are but th' external marks to tell 
The fair ideas in the mind that dwell. 
And only are of things the outward sign, 
And not the things themselves they but define; 
So exclamations, tender tones, fond tears, 
And all the graceful drapery Feeling wears, 
These are her garb, not her, they but express 
Her form, her semblance, her appropriate dress ; 



HANNAH MORE. 87 

And these fair marks, reluctant I relate, 
These lovely symbols may be counterfeit. 



O Love divine ! soul source of charity ! 
More dear one genuine deed performed for thee, 
Than all the periods Feeling e'er could turn. 
Than all thy touching page, perverted Sterne ! 
Not that by deeds alone this love's expressed — 
If so, the affluent only were the bless'd j 
One silent wish, one prayer, one soothing word. 
The page of mercy shall, well-pleased, record; 
One soul-felt sigh by powerless pity given, 
Accepted incense ! shall ascend to heaven! 

Since trifles make the sum of human things. 
And half our misery from our foibles springs; 
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease, 
And tho' but few can serve, yet all may please ; 
O let th' ungentle spirit learn from hence, 
A small unkindness is a great offence. 
To spread large bounties, tho' we wish in vain, 
Yet all may shun the guilt of giving pain : 
To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth, 
With rank to gra&e them, or to crowa with health, 
Our little lot denies; yet lib'ral still, 
Heaven gives its counterpoise to every ill. 
Nor let us murmur at our stinted powers. 
When kindness, love, and concord may be ours. 
The gift of minist'ring to other's ease, 
To all her sons impartial she decrees; 
The gentle offices of patient love, 
Beyond all flattery, and all price above ; 
The mild forbearance at a brother's fault. 
The angry word suppressed, the taunting thought ; 
Subduing and subdued, the petty strife 
Which clouds the color of domestic life ; 



88 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

The sober comfort, all the peace which springs, 
From the large aggregate of little things ; 
On these small cares of daughter^ wife, ox friend. 
The utmost sacred joys of home depend: 
There, Sensibility, thou best may'st reign, 
Home is thy true, legitimate domain. 



SKETCHES FROM THE SACRED DRAMAS. 



A MOTHER'S LOVE. 



-A TENDER mother lives 



In many lives ; through many a nerve she feels ; 

From child to child the quick affections spread. 

Forever wandering, yet forever fixed. 

Nor does division weaken, nor the force 

Of constant operation e'er exhaust 

Parental love. All other passions change 

With changing circumstances ; rise or fall. 

Dependent on their object ; claim returns ; 

Live on reciprocation, and expire 

Unfed by hope. A mother's fondness reigns 

Without a rival, and without an end. 

A GOOD CONSCIENCE. 

The ostentatious virtues which still press 

For notice and for praise ; the brilliant deeds 

Which live but in the eye of observation, 

These have their meed at once. But there 's a joy^, 

To the fond votaries of Fame unknown — 

To hear the still small voice of Conscience speak 

Its whispered plaudit to the silent soul I 



HANNAH MORE. 89 



FAVOR IS FLEETING. 



Dost thou not know 



That of all fickle Fortune's transient gifts, 
Favor is most deceitful ? 'T is a beam, 
Which darts uncertain brightness for a moment ! 
The faint, precarious, fickly shine of power. 
Given without merit, by caprice withdrawn. 
No trifle is so small as what obtains. 
Save that which loses favor ; 't is a breath. 
Which hangs upon a smile ! A look, a word, 
A frown, the air-built tower of Fortune shakes, 
And down the unsubstantial fabric falls ! 



FAITH. 

O Faith ! thou wonder-working principle — 
Eternal substance of our present hope, 
Thou evidence of things invisible ! 
What cannot man sustain, by thee sustained ! 

WISDOM^ 

Wisdom, whose fruits are purity and peace ! 

Wisdom ! that bright intelligence, which sat 

Supreme, when with his golden compasses 

Th' Eternal plann'd the fabric of the world, 

Produced his fair idea into light, 

And said that all was good ! Wisdom, blest beam ! 

The brightness of the everlasting light! 

The spotless mirror of the power of God ! 

The reflex image of th' all perfect Mind ! 

A stream translucent, flowing from the source 

Of glory infinite — a cloudless light ! — 

Defilement cannot touch, nor sin pollute 

Her unstained purity. Not Ophir's gold. 



90 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Nor Ethiopia's gems can match her price ! 
The ruby of the mine is pale before her; 
And like the oil Elisha's bounty blessed, 
She is a treasure which doth grow by use, 
And multiply by spending. She contains^ 
Within herself, the sum of excellence. 

If riches are desired, wisdom is wealth ; 
If prudence, where shall keen Invention find 
Artificer more cunning? If renown, 
In her right hand it comes ! If piety, 
Are not her labors virtues ? If the lore 
Which sage Experience teaches, lo ! she scans 
Antiquity's dark truths ; the past she knows,. 
Anticipates the future; not by arts 
Forbidden, of Chaldean sorcery, 
But from the piercing ken of deep Foreknowledge, 
From her sure science of the human heart, 
She weighs effects with causes, ends with means ; 
Resolving all into the sovereign will. 



TRUST IN GOD. 

Know, God is every where : — 
Through all the vast infinitude of space ; 
At his command the furious tempests rise — 
He tells the world of waters where to soar ; 
And at his bidding winds and waves are calm. 
In Him, not in an arm of flesh, I trust; 
In Him, whose promise never yet has failed, 
I place my confidence. 



ANNA L^TITIA BARBAULD* 



Dear good Mrs. Barbauld — how vividly comes the re- 
membrance of her " Hymns in Prose" over my heart, 
mingling with those pleasant recollections of my childhood ; 
the thought of the earliest violet, always gathered by me 
for my mother's own[eye, and the birds' nests in that thicket 
of evergreens, which, duly as the spring came round, was 
my aviary, and almost my abiding place ! Yes, there 1 
first read her sweet "Hymns," and learned to love her 
name, and none dearer to me shall I twine in my " Wreath." 
Like the Lavender, whose rich fragrance makes us prize its 
simple flower, her poetry will be treasured, because imbued 
with those pure and enduring qualities of truth and feeling 
which require little ornament. The genius of Mrs. Bar- 
bauld seems never to have incited her to attempt a wide 
range, or a very lofty flight ; but in the sphere she chose, 
her taste and observation were correct and delicately 
nice 5 and her moral feelings were elevated and bright 
with all that is best and holiest in our nature. Hence 
she succeeded better in those compositions which were ad- 
dressed to the heart, than in her more studied efforts to en- 
gage the imagination and the reasoning powers., Her 

* Her "Works," with a "Memoir" by Lucy Aikin are printed 
in two handsome volumes, which ought to be in the Library of 
every lady. 



92 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

" Hymns in Prose " are more truly poetical, than her 
rhymes; because in the former, the heart pours itself out in 
that true divinity of poetry, the love of Nature, and of Na- 
ture's God, unfettered by those rules of verse, which to her 
mind must, we think, always have proved heavy and irk- 
some. Her prose is written with more freedom and appar- 
ent ease than her poetry ; and her style is vigorous and el- 
egant. — There is a benignity, mingled with sprightliness, 
in many of her productions, which seems breathed from a 
happy as well as innocent heart : and it adds very much 
to our pleasure when reading a delightful book, to feel as- 
sured that it was written in the same spirit of complacency. 
This pleasure we always enjoy over the works of Mrs. 
Barbauld. 

The maiden name of this poetess was Aiken. She was 
the only daughter of the Rev. John Aiken ; and was born 
at the village of Kibworth Harcourt, in Leicestershire, June, 
1743. — She exhibited in her earliest infancy an uncom- 
mon quickness of apprehension, and though her education 
was entirely domestic, and her literary advantages in youth 
quite circumscribed, yet her own industry and talents over- 
came all these obstacles, and she became an authoress of 
high repute, before her marriage with the Rev. Rochemont 
Barbauld, which took place in 1774. From that time she 
devoted the greatest portion of her time and thoughts to 
the assistance of her husband, who was for many years en- 
gaged in superintending the education of a select number 
of boys, from among the first families. Mrs. Barbauld 
seems to have had a tender love for children, though she 
had none of her own ; and the aid she rendered her excel- 
lent husband in the education of his pupils, was, without 
doubt, of much service in disciplining and strengthening 
her own mind. She survived her husband a number of 
years, devoting her widowhoo ] to deeds of benevolence 
and her literary pursuits. Her own death occurred March 
9th, 1825, in the eighty-second year of her age ; and she 
retained to the last her cheerfulness. 



MRS. BARBAULD. 93 

Her personal appearance has been thus described by her 
niece, Miss Lucy Aiken. — "She was in youth possessed of 
great beauty, distinct traces of which she retained to the 
latest period of her life. Her person was slender, her 
complexion exquisitely fair, with the bloom of perfect health ; 
her features were regular and elegant, and her dark blue 
eyes beamed with the light of fancy." 

We may add that she exhibited through life that most 
precious of examples, intellectual eminence and Christian 
humility, united in a lovely and accomplished woman. 



TO MR. BARBAULD. 

Nov. 4th, 1778. 

Come, clear thy studious looks awhile; 

'T is arrant treason now 

To wear that moping brow, 

When I, thy empress, bid thee smile. 

What though the fading year 

One wreath will not aifford 

To grace the poet's hair, 

Or deck the festal board ; — 

A thousand pretty ways we'll find 

To mock old Winter's starving reign ; 

We '11 bid the violets spring again j 

Bid rich poetic roses blow, 

Peeping above his heaps of snow; 

We '11 dress his withered cheeks in flowers, 

And on his smooth bald head 

Fantastic garlands bind; 

Garlands, which we will get 

From the gay blooms of that immortal year. 

Above the turning season, set, 



94 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Where young ideas shoot in Fancy's sunny bowers. 

A thousand pleasant arts we'll have 

To add new feathers to the wings of Time, 

And make him smoothly haste away : 

We '11 use him as our slave. 
And when we please we'll bid him stay, 
And clip his wings, and make him stop to view 
Our studies and our follies too ; 
How sweet our follies are, how high our fancies climb. 

We '11 little care what others do, 
And where they go, and what they say j 
Our bliss, all inward and our own, 
Would only tarnished be, by being shown, 
The talking, restless world shall see, 
Spite of the world we'll happy be. 
But none shall know 
How much we 're so, 
Save only Love, and we* 



AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 

God of my life! and author of my days ! 

Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise ; 

And, trembling, take upon a mortal tongue 

That hallowed name to harps of seraphs sung. 

Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more 

Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore. 

Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere 

Are equal all, — for all are nothing here. 

All nature faints beneath the mighty name, 

Which nature's works through all their parts proclaim. 

I feel that name my inmost thoughts control, 

And breathe an awful stillness through my soul j 



MRS. BARBAULD. 95 

As by a charm, the waves of grief subside ; 
Impetuous Passion stops her headlong tide : 
At thy felt presence all emotions cease. 
And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace, 
Till every worldly thought within me dies, 
And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes; 
Till all my sense is lost in infinite. 
And one vast object fills my aching sight. 
But soon, alas ! this holy calm is broke; 
My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke; — 
With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain. 
And mingles with the dross of earth again. 
But he, our gracious Master, kind as just. 
Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust. 
His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind. 
Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined; 
Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim. 
And fans the smoking flax into a flame. 
His ears are open to the softest cry, 
His grace descends to meet the lifted eye ; 
He reads the language of a silent tear. 
And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. 
Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give ; 
Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live : 
From each terrestrial bondage set me free ; 
Still every wish that centres not in thee ; 
Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease. 
And point my path to everlasting peace. 

If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads 
By living waters, and through flowery meads. 
When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, 
And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene, 
O teach me to elude each latent snare, 
And whisper to my sliding heart — Beware ! 
With caution let me hear the syren's voice. 
And, doubtful, with a trembling heart rejoice. 



96 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

If friendless, in a vale of tears I stray, 
Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my way, 
Still let my steady soul thy goodness see. 
And with strong confidence lay hold on thee ; 
With equal eye my various lot receive. 
Resigned to die, or resolute to live ; 
Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod. 
While God is seen in all, and all in God. 

I read his awful name, emblazoned high 

With golden letters on the illumined sky j 

Nor less the mystic characters I see 

Wrought in each llower, inscribed in every tree ; 

In every leaf that trembles to the breeze 

I hear the voice of God among the trees ; 

With thee in shady solitudes I walk. 

With thee in busy crowded cities talkj 

In every creature own thy forming power, 

In each event thy providence adore. 

Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul, 
Thy precepts guide me, and tliy fears control: 
Thus shall I rest, unmoved by all alarms, 
Secure within the temple of thine arms ; 
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free. 
And feel myself omnipotent in thee. 

Then, when the last, the closing hour draws nigh. 
And earth recedes before my swimming eye ; 
When, trembling, on the doubtful edge of fate 
I stand, and stretch my view to either state : 
Teach me to quit this transitory scene 
With decent triumph and a look serene ; 
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, 
And having lived to thee, in thee to die. 



MRS. BARBAULD. 97 



TO MRS. R * * * *, 



l; ON HER ATTENDANCE UPON HER MOTHER, AT BUXTON.] 

When blooming beauty in the noon of power, 

While offered joys demand each sprightly hour, 

With all that pomp of charms and winning mien 

Which sure to conquer needs but to be seen; 

When she, whose name the softest love inspires, 

To the hush'd chamber of disease retires, 

To watch and weep beside a parent's bed. 

Catch the faint voice, and raise the languid head, — 

What mixt delight each feeling heart must warm! 

An angel's office suits an angel's form. 

Thus the tall column graceful rears its head 

To prop some mould'ring tower with moss o'erspread, 

Whose stately piles and arches yet display 

The venerable graces of decay : 

Thus round the withered trunk fresh shoots are seen 

To shade their parent with a cheerful green. 

More health, dear maid ! thy soothing presence brings 

Than purest skies, or salutary springs. 

That voice, those looks such healing virtues bear, 

Thy sweet reviving smiles might cheer despair; 

On the pale lips detain the parting breath. 

And bid hope blossom in the shades of death. 

Beauty, like thine, could never reach a charm 

So powerful to subdue, so sure to warm. 

On her loved child behold the mother gaze, 

In weakness pleased, and smiling through decays. 

And leaning on that breast her cares assuage ; — 

How soft a pillow for declining age ! 

9 



98 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

For this, when that fair frame must feel decay, — 
Ye Fates protract it to a distant day, — 
When thy approach no tvmiults shall impart, 
Nor that commanding glance strike through the heart. 
When meaner beauties shall have leave to shine. 
And crowds divide the homage lately thine, 
Not with the transient praise those charms can boast 
Shall thy fair fame and gentle deeds be lost : 
Some pious hand shall thy weak limbs sustain, 
And pay thee back these generous cares again; 
Thy name shall llourish, by the good approved, 
Thy memory honored, and thy dust beloved. 



A THOUGHT ON DEATH. 

November, 1814. 

When life as opening buds is sweet, 
And golden hopes the fancy greet, 
And youth prepares his joys to meet, — 
Alas how hard it is to die ! 

When just is seized some valued prize. 
And duties press, and tender ties 
Forbid the soul from earth to rise, — 
How awful then it is to die ! 

When, one by one, those ties are torn. 
And friend from friend is snatched forlorn, 
And man is left alone to mourn, — 
Ah then, how easy 'tis to die ! 

When faith is firm and conscience clear, 
And words of peace the spirit cheer. 



MRS. BARBAULD. 99 

And visioned glories half appear, — 
'T is joy, 't is triumph then to die. 

When trembling limbs refuse their weight, 
And films, slow gathering, dim the sight, 
And clouds obscure the mental light, — 
'T is nature's precious boon to die. 



WASHING-DAY. 

The Muses are turned gossips; they have lost 

The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase, 

Language of gods. Come then, domestic Muse, 

In slipshod measure loosely prattling on 

Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream, 

Or drowning flies, or shoe lost on the mire 

By little whimpering boy, with rueful face ; 

Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing-day. 

Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend. 

With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day 

Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on 

Too soon ; — for to that day nor peace belongs 

Nor comfort ; — ere the first gray streak of dawn, 

The red-armed washers come and chase repose. 

Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth. 

E'er visited that day : the very cat. 

From the wet kitchen scared and reeking hearth. 

Visits the parlor, — an unwonted guest. 

The silent breakfast-meal is soon dispatched; 

Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks 

Cast at the lowering sky, if sky should lower. 

From that last evil, O preserve us, heavens ! 

For should the skies pour down, adieu to all 



100 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Remains of quiet : then expect to hear 

Of sad disasters, — dirt and gravel stains 

Hard to eflface, and loaded lines at once 

Snapped short, — and linen-horse by dog thrown down, 

And all the petty miseries of life. 

Saints have been calm while stretch'd upon the rack, 

And Guatimozin smiled on burning coals ; 

But never yet did housewife notable 

Greet with a smile a rainy Avashing-day. 

— But grant the welkin fair, require not thou 

Who call'st thyself perchance the master there, 

Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat, 

Or usual 'tendance ; — ask not, indiscreet. 

Thy stockings mended, though the yaAvning rents 

Gape wide as Erebus ; nor hope to find 

Some snug recess impervious : should'st thou try 

The 'customed garden walks, thine eye shall rue 

The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs, 

Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight 

Of coarse checked apron, — with impatient hand 

Twitch'd off when showers impend : or crossing lines 

Shall mar thy musings, as th« wet cold sheet 

Flaps in thy face abrupt. Wo to the friend 

Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim 

On such a day the hospitable rites ! 

Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesy, 

Shall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopes 

With dinner of roast chicken, savory pie, 

Or tart, or pudding: — pudding he nor tart 

That day shall eat ; nor, though the husband try, 

Mending what can't be helped, to kindle mirth 

From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow 

Clear up propitious: — the unlucky gue&t 

In silence dines, and early slinks away. 

I well remember, when a child, the awe 

This day struck into me ; for then the maids,. 



MRS, BARBAULD. 101 

I scarce knew why, look'd cross, and drove me from them: 

Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope 

Usual indulgencies ; jelly or creams, 

Relic of costly suppers, and set by 

For me their petted one ; or buttered toast, 

When butter was forbid ; or thrilling tale 

Of ghost or witch, or murder — so I went 

And sheltered me beside the parlor fire: 

There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms, 

Tended the little ones, and watched from harm. 

Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles 

With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins 

Drawn from her ravelPd stocking, might have sour'd 

One less indulgent. — 

At intervals my mother's voice was heard, 

Urging despatch : briskly the work went on, 

All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring, 

To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait. 

Then would I sit me down, and ponder much 

Why washings were. Sometimes through hollow bowl 

Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft 

The floating bubbles; little dreaming then 

To see, Mongolfier, thy silken ball 

Ride buoyant through the clouds— so near approach 

The sports of children and the toils of men. 

Earth, air, and sky, and ocean, hath its bubbles, 

And verse is one of them — this most of all. 



9* 



JANE TAYLOR. 



# 



The poetry of Miss Taylor always reminds me of Cow- 
per's ; and in the character of their minds there was a strik- 
ing similarity, as any one must have noticed, who has read 
the " Memoirs and Correspondence" of each of these gift- 
ed, good, and gentle beings. Miss Taylor possessed, like 
Cowper, a vein of playful humor, that often gave point and 
vividness to the most sombre sentiment, and usually ani- 
mated the strains she sung for children ; but still, there was 
often over her fancy, as over his, a deep shade of pensive- 
ness, — " morbid humility," she somewhere calls it, — and 
no phrase could better express the state of feeling which 
frequently oppressed her heart. The kind and soothing do- 
mestic influences which were always around her path in 
life, prevented the sad and despairing tone of her mind from 
ever acquiring the predominance, so as to unfit her for her 
duties; in this respect she was much more favored than the 
bard of Olney. But we are inclined to think that, had she 
met with severe trials and misfortunes, the character of her 
poetry would have been more elevated, and her language 
more glowing. The retiring sensitiveness of her disposi- 
tion kept down, usually, that energy of thought and eleva- 

* There is an American edition, in three volumes, of the writ- 
ings of Miss Taylor, to which is prefixed her " Memoirs and Cor- 
respondence." 



JANE TAYLOR. lOS 

tion of sentiment, which, from a few specimens of her later 
writings, she seemed gifted to sustain, could she only have 
been incited to the effort. 

Miss Taylor was born in London, September, 1783. She 
was the second daughter of the Rev. Mr. Taylor, of Ongar ; 
and her mother Avas, late in life, a writer of considerable 
celebrity. Her father, however, was not ordained a clergy- 
man till Jane was nearly thirteen years of age. He was 
by profession an engraver, and taught both his daughters 
the art, as a means of independence. Jane excelled in 
drawing ; her delicate taste and fine genius particularly fit- 
ted her to appreciate the beautiful in nature ; but she never 
succeeded to satisfy herself in the productions of the grav- 
er. The education of Jane was almost entirely conducted 
at home, by her excellent and sensible parents ; and she 
constantly, in her letters, dwells on the happiness of this 
endearing domestic intercourse. Her first effort at rhyme 
was made at the early age of ten years ; and throughout 
her youth the predominance of the poetical feeling is evi- 
dent, but her timidity constantly checked the natural pro- 
pensity. It was not till 1804 that she ventured to appear 
in print. From that period till her decease, which occur- 
red in 1824, she was more or less occupied in literary pur- 
suits. Her prose writings, under the title of " Contribu- > 
tions of Q,. Q,. to a Periodical," are too well known to need 
description; and the simple story of hers, entitled "Dis- 
play," has acquired a popularity which few regular two- 
volumed novels ever attained. But it is in her familiar 
" Correspondence," that the real beauty and brightness of 
her genius and intellect are best comprehended. Pure as 
the first Snow-drop of spring was her fancy, and there is a 
child-like simplicity in her feelings, that makes the reader 
of her unstudied effiisions love her at once. Her piety was 
deep and most humble : diffidence was usually in all things 
the prevailing mood of her mind ; and this often clouded 
her religious enjoyment. But she triumphed in the closing 



104 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

scene ; those " unreal fears " were, in a great measure, re- * 
moved, and she went down to the " cold dark grave " with 
that firm trust in her Redeemer which disarmed death of 
its terrors. 

" Pure spirits should not pass unmourned ; 

This earth is poor without them. But a view 
Of better climes broke on her, and her soul 
Rose o'er its stricken tent with outspread wing 
Of seraph rapture." 



THE WORLD IN THE HEART. 



Ask the good housewife, mid her bustling maids. 
If ne'er the world her humbler sphere invades. 
But if, (unconscious of its secret sway,) 
She own it not, her eager looks betray. 
Yes, there you find it, spite of locks and bars. 
Hid in the store-room with her jams and jars; 
It gilds her china, in her cupboard sliines. 
Works at the vent-peg of her homemade wines. 
Each varied dainty to her board supplies, 
And comes up smoking in her Christmas pies. 

The charms of mental converse some may fear. 
Who scruple not to lend a ready ear 
To kitchen tales, of scandal, strife, and love. 
Which make the maid and mistress hand and glove; 
And ever deem the sin and danger less, 
Merely for being in a vulger dress. 

Thus the world haunts, in forms of varied kind. 
The intellectual and the grovelling mind ; 



JANE TAYLOR. 105 

Now, sparkling in the muse's fair attire, 
Now, red and busy at the kitchen fire. 
And were you called to give a casting voice. 
One to select, from such a meagre choice, 
Deciding which life's purpose most mistook — 
Would you not say, — the worldly-minded cook? 
Not intellectual vanity to flatter; 
— Simply, that mind precedence claims of matter. 

And she, Avhose nobler course is seen to shine. 
At once, with human knowledge and divine ; 
Who, mental culture and domestic rites 
In close and graceful amity unites; 
Striving to hold them in their proper place. 
Not interfering with her heavenly race ; 
Whose constant aim it is, and fervent prayer. 
On earthly ground to breathe celestial air; — 
Still, she could witness how the world betrays, 
Steals softly in by unsuspected ways, 
Her yielding soul from heavenly converse bears, 
And holds her captive in its silken snares. 
Could she not tell the trifles, that are brought 
To rival heaven, and drive it from her thought? 
— Her heart (unconscious of the flowery trap) 
Caught in the sprigs upon a baby's cap ; 
Thence disengaged, its freedom boasts awhile, 
Till taken captive by the baby's smile. 

But oh, how mournful when resistance fails, 
The conflict slackens, and the foe prevails ! 
For instance — yonder matron, who appears 
Softly descending in the vale of years j 
And yet, with health, and constant care bestowed, 
Still comely, emhonpomt and h la mode^ 
Once, in her youthful days, her heart was warmj 
At least her feelings wore devotion's form; 



106 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

And ever since, to quell the rising doubt. 

She makes that grain of godliness eke out. 

With comfort still, the distant day she sees, 

When grief or terror brought her to her knees ; 

When Christian friends rejoiced at what she told, 

And bade her welcome to the Church's fold. 

There still she rests, her words, her forms the same ; 

There holds profession's lamp without the flame ; 

Her Sabbaths come and go, with even pace; 

Year after year, you find her in her place, 

And still no change apparent, saving that 

Of time and fashion, in her face and hat. 

She stands or kneels as usual, hears and sings ; 

Goes home and dines, and talks of other things; 

Enjoys her comforts with as strong a gdut 

As if they were not fading from her view ; 

And still is telling what she means to do : 

Talks of events that happen to befall. 

Not like a stranger, passing from it all, 

But eager, anxious in their issue still. 

Hoping this will not be, or that it will; 

Getting, enjoying, all that can be had; 

Amused with trifles, and at trifles sad : 

While hope still whispers in her willing ears, 

" Soul, thou hast goods laid up for many years." 

A few, brief words her character portray — 

— This world contents her, if she might but stay. 

When true and fervent pilgrims round her press, 

She inly wishes that their zeal were less. 

Their Avorks of love, their spirit, faith, and prayers,. 

Their calm indifference to the world's affairs, 

Reproach her deadness, and she fain, for one, 

Would call their zeal and ardor overdone. 

But what her thought is — what her hope and stay, 
In moments of reflection, who shall say ? 
— Time does not slacken, — nay, he speeds his pace, 



JANE TAYLOR. 107 

Bearing her onward to her finished race : 

The common doom awaits her, "dust to dust;" 

The young may soon receive it, but she must. 

What is the Christian's course? — the Scriptures say, 

" Brighter and brighter to the perfect day ! " 

Oh! does her earthly mind, her anxious heart, 

Clinging to life, not longing to depart, 

Her languid prayer, her graces dim and faint. 

Meet that description of the growing saint? 

Let her inquire (for far is spent the night) 

If she be meetenhl for that world of light; 

Where are her highest, best affections placed? — 

Death may impi^ove, but not reverse the taste : 

Does she indeed the things of time prefer? 

Then surely heaven could not be heaven to her. 



" THE THINGS THAT ARE UNSEEN ARE 
ETERNAL." 

There is a state unknoAvn, unseen. 

Where parted souls must be ; 
And but a step may be between 

That world of souls and me. 

The friend I loved has thither fled, 
With whom I sojourned here : 

I see no sight — I hear no tread, 
But may she not be near? 

I see no light — I hear no sound. 
When midnight shades are spread ; 

Yet angels pitch their tents around, 
And guard my quiet bed. 



108 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Jesus was wrapt from mortal gaze, 
And clouds conveyed him hence ; 

Enthroned amid the sapphire blaze, 
Beyond our feeble sense. — 

Yet say not — Who shall mount on high, 
To bring him from above ? 

For lo ! the Lord is always nigh 
The children of his love. 

The Savior, whom I long have sought, 
And would, but cannot see — 

And is he here ? O wondrous thought ! 
And will he dwell with me ? 

I ask not with my mortal eye 
To view the vision bright ? 

I dare not see Thee, lest I die; 
Yet, Lord, restore my sight ! 

Give me to see Thee, and to feel — 

The mental vision clear: 
The things unseen reveal ! reveal ! 

And let me know them near. 

I seek not fancy's glittering height, 
That charmed my ardent youth ; 

But in thy light would see the light, 
And learn thy perfect truth. 

The gathering clouds of sense dispel, 
That wrap my soul around; 

In heavenly places make me dwell, 
While treading earthly ground. 

Illume this shadowy soul of mine, 
That still in darkness lies ; 



JANE TAYLOR. 109 

O let the light in darkness shine, 
And bid the day-star ris« ! 

Impart the faith that soars on high, 

Beyond this earthly strife, 
That holds sweet converse with the sky, 

A.nd lives Eternal Life ! 



EXPERIENCE. 



How false is found, as on in life we go, 
Our early estimate of bliss and wo ! 
— Some sparkling joy attracts us, that we fain 
Would sell a precious birth-right to obtain. 
There all our hopes of happiness are placed ; 
Life looks without it like a joyless waste ; 
No good is prized, no comfort sought beside; 
Prayers, tears implore, and will not be denied. 
Heaven pitying hears the intemperate, rude appeal. 
And suits its answer to our truest weal. 
The self-sought idol, if at last bestowed. 
Proves, what our wilfulness required — a goad; 
Ne'er but as needful chastisement, is given 
The wish thus forc'd, and torn, and storm'd from heaven : 
But if withheld, in pity, from our prayer, 
We rave, awhile, of torment and despair, 
Refuse each proffered comfort with disdain. 
And slight the thousand blessings that remain; 
Meantime, Heaven bears the grievous wrong, and wails 
In patient pity till the storm abates ; 
Applies with gentlest hand the healing balm, 
Or speaks the ruffled mind into a calm ; 
10 



110 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Deigning, perhaps, to show the mourner soon, 
'T was special mercy that denied the boon. 

Our blasted hopes, our aims and wishes crost. 
Are worth the tears and agonies they cost j 
When the poor mind, by fruitless efforts spent, 
With food and raiment learns to be content. 
Bounding with youthful hope, the restless mind 
Leaves that divine monition far behind; 
But tamed at length by suffering, comprehends 
The tranquil happiness to which it tends. 
Perceives the high-wrought bliss it aimed to share 
Demands a richer soil, a purer air ; 
That 'tis not fitted, and would strangely grace 
The mean condition of our mortal race ; 
And all we need, in this terrestrial spot, 
Is calm contentment with " the common lot." 



ACCOMPLISHMENT. 

How is it that masters, and science, and art, 
One spark of intelligence fail to impart, 
Unless in that chemical union combined, 
Of which the result, in one word, is a mind 7 

A youth may have studied, and travelled abroad, 
May sing like Apollo, and paint like a Claude, 
And speak all the languages under the pole, 
And have every gift in the world, but a soul. 

That drapery wrought by the leisurely fair, 

Called patchwork, may well to such genius compare, 



JANE TAYLOR. HI 

Wherein every tint of the rainbow appears, 

And stars to adorn it are forced from their spheres. 



There glows a bright pattern (a sprig, or a spot) 
'T wixt clusters of roses full-blown and red hot; 
Here magnified tulips divided in three. 
Alternately shaded with sections of tree. 

But when all is finished, this labor of years, 
A mass unharmonious, unmeaning appears; 
'Tis showy, but void of intelligent grace; 
It is not a landscape — it is not a face. 

'Tis thus Education, (so called in our schools,) 
With costly materials, and capital tools, 
Sits down to her work, if you duly reward her, 
And sends it home finished according to order. 

See French and Italian spread out on her lap; 
Then Dancing springs up, and skips into a gap ; 
Next Drawing and all its varieties come, 
Sewed down in her place by her finger and thumb. 

And then, for completing her fanciful robes, 
Geography, Music, the use of the Globes, 
&c. &c., which, match as they will, 
Are sewn into shape, and set down in the bill. 

Thus Science distorted, and torn into bits, 
Art tortured, and frightened half out of her wits ; 
In portions and patches, some light and some shady, 
Are stitched up together, and make a young lady. 



11^ THE LADIES' WREATH. 



THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES. 

In days of yore, as Gothic fable tells, 
When learning dimly gleamed from grated cells, 
When wild Astrology's distorted eye 
Shunned the fair field of true philosophy. 
And, wandering through the depths of mental night. 
Sought dark predictions 'mid the worlds of light: — 
When curious Alchymy, Avith puzzled brow, 
Attempted things that Science laughs at now, 
Losing the useful purpose she consults, 
In vain chimeras and unknown results : — 
In those gray times there liyed a reverend sage, 
Whose wisdom shed its lustre on the age. 
A monk he was, immured in cloistered walls,. 
Where now the ivy'd ruin crumbling- falls., 
'T was a profound seclusion that he chose ; 
The noisy world disturbed not that repose : 
The flow of murmuring waters, day by day, 
And whistling winds that forced their tardy way 
Through reverend trees, of ages growth, that made, 
Around the holy pile a deep monastic shade ; 
The chanted psalm, or solitary prayer — 
Such were the sounds that broke the silence there. 



'T was here, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er. 
In the depth of his cell with its stone-covered floor, 
Resigning to thought his chimerical brain, 
He formed the contrivance we now shah explain: 
But whether by magic, or alchymy's powers. 
We know not — indeed 'tis no business of ours: 



JANE TAYLOR. 113 

Perhaps it was only by patience and care, 

At last that lie brought his invention to bear. 

In youth 'twas projected; but years stole away, 

And ere 'twas complete he was wrinkled and gray : 

But success is secure unless energy fails ; 

And at length he produced Tlie Philosopher's Scales. 

What were they? — you ask: you shall presently see ; 
These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea; 
O no; — for such properties wondrous had they, 
That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh; 
Together with articles small or immense, 
From mountains or planets, to atoms of sense: 
Nought was there so bulky, but there it could lay ; 
And nought so etherial, but there it would stay ; 
And nought so reluctant, but in it must go ; 
All which some examples more clearly will show. 

The first thing he tried was the head of Voltaire, 
Which retained all the wit that had ever been there ; 
As a weight, he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf. 
Containing the prayer of the penitent thief; 
When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell, 
As to bound like a ball on the roof of the cell. 

Next time he put in Alexander the Great, 
With a garment that Dorcas had made — for a weight; 
And though clad in armor from sandals to crown, 
The hero rose up, and the garment went down. 

A long row of alms-houses, amply endowed. 
By a well-esteemed pharisee, busy and proud, 
Now loaded one scale, while the other was prest 
By those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest ; — 
Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce, 
And down, down, the farthing's worth came with a bounce. 
10* 



114 



THE LADIES' WREATH. 



Again, he performed an experiment rare ; 
A monk, with austerities bleeding and bare, 
Climbed into his scale ; in the other was laid 
The heart of our Howard, now partly decayed ; 
Whenhe found, with surprise, that the whole of his brother 
Weighed less, by some pounds, than th.is.bit of the other. 

By further experiments (no matter how) 
He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plough,. 
A sword, with gilt trappings, rose up in the scale. 
Though balanced by only a ten-pe,nny nail.; 
A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear,. 
Weighed less than a widow's uncrystallized tear. 
A lord and a lady went up at full sail, 
When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale. 
Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl, 
Ten counsellors' wigs full, of powder and curl, 
All heaped in one balance, and swinging from thenee^ 
Weighed less than some atoms of candor and sense; 
A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt, 
Than one good potatoe, just washed from the dirt ; 
Yet, not mountains of silver and gold would suffice. 
One pearl to outweigh — 'twas the "pearl of great price." 

At last the whole world was bowled in at the grate ; 
With the soul of a beggar ta serve for a weight ; 
When the former sprang up wit . so strong a rebuff, 
That it made a vast rent, and escaped at the roof; 
Whence, balanced in air, it ascended on high, 
And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky ; 
While the scale with the soul in, so mightily fell, 
That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell. 

MORAL 

Dear reader, if e'er self-deception prevails,. 
We pray you to try The Philosopher'' s ScaleSi 



JANE TAYLOR. 115 

But if they are lost in the ruins around, 
Perhaps a good substitute thus may be found: — 
l^ei judgment and conscience in circles be cut, 
To which strings of thought may be carefully put: 
Let these be made even with caution extreme. 
And impartiality use for a beam : 
Then bring those good actions which pride overates,. 
And tear up your motives to serve for the weights. 



THE VIOLET. 

Down in the green and shady bed, 

A modest violet grew ; 
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head. 

As if to hide from view.. 

And yet it was a lovely flowerj. 

Its color bright and fair; 
It might have graced a rosy bower,. 

Instead of hiding there. 

Yet there it was content to bloom, 

In modest tints arrayed; 
And there it sheds its sweet perfume^ 

Within the silent shade. 

Then let me to the valley go, ;' 

This pretty flower to see, 
That I may also learn to grow 

\q. sweet humility. 



LJBTITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.* 



England boasts no living poetess superior to Miss Lan- 
don. Hers is the true inspiration, ascribed by the ancients 
to Phoebus, by us to Nature, which can 

" Give to airy nothing 



A local habitation, and a name." 

She possesses in an eminent degree that loftiest attribute 
of genius, creative power — her imagination is vivid, varied, 
and fertile, and in depicting scenes of passionate love or 
sorrowful despair she is unrivalled by any modern poet, of 
either sex. We do not, however, think these love-strains 
worthy of all praise. It is true that she has painted her 
pictures to the mind's eye, with great delicacy of touch, and 
many of them possess exquisite grace and beauty ; still we 
wish she had not so frequently made choice of " love as the 

* There are several volumes of Miss Lan don's poetical works, 
besides a countless number of fugitive pieces in the Annuals and 
Periodicals constantly appearing. The volumes have all been re- 
published in America, and with the exception of Mrs. Hemans, no 
English writer of poetry is now more popularly known among us 
than L. E. L. Her lyrical effusions find a place in our papers, 
from Maine to Florida, and her admirable " Poem on the Death of 
Mrs. Hemans " has given her a warm place in the heart of many a 
devoted admirer of that sweet songstress. 



L. E. L. 117 

source of song." — She somewhere remarks, as an apology 
for the amatory character of her early writings, that "for a 
woman, whose influence and sphere is the affections, love 
is the peculiar province." And so it is — but then she 
should, like Mrs. Hemans, have extended the sphere of love 
to the conjugal, parental, filial, and fraternal feelings. 
Yes, the true love, which gloAvs with the holiest and bright- 
est light in the garland of poesy twined by a female hand, 
is that which she will find in the domestic circle — the 
household affections, rather than the tender passion^ should 
be her theme. 

In her later productions Miss Landon has greatly im- 
proved. She addresses other feelings besides /ore, her 
style has more simplicity and strength, and the sentiment 
becomes elevated and womanly — for we hold that the 
loftiest, purest and best qualities of our nature, the moral 
feelings^ are peculiarly suited to the genius of woman. As 
shells still young, and possesses such fervidness and activ- 
ity of genius, and the power of judgment which can control 
the exuberance which such a fancy as hers is inclined to 
indulge, there is every reason to hope better and richer 
treasures from her muse, than any yet given to the world. 

In prose Miss Landon has succeeded well, though v/e do 
not place her in the first rank of the popular novelists of 
the day. Her " Romance and Reality " is an interesting 
story, and many of her short sketches and tales, which are 
gracing the periodicals of the day, are written with a 
charming naivet^ and sprightliness. But the originality, 
pathos and deep feeling, which characterize much of her 
poetry, are seldom found in her prose. Nature has gifted 
her for the lyre, and we hope she will only practice prose 
writing sufficiently to correct, by its requisite common 
sense and naturalness, some of the eccentricities and con- 
ceits which a vivid imagination, always searching for the 
wonderful, the beautiful and the exciting, is so apt to in- 
dulge. 



118 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Though Miss Landon has written much pathetic poetry, 
depicting the woes of despairing and forsaken lovers, she 
is not describing her own case. It is said that she is very 
fond of society, and shines among the fair, fashionable and 
fascinating of the London world as a " bright particular 
star ;" — and that nev^er has a disappointment of the heart 
occurred to cloud her vivacity. So, no gentle reader of the 
"Improvasatrice," "The Venetian Bracelet," "Lost Ple- 
iad," &c. &c — must identify the suffering heroines of those 
poems with the accomplished writer. But there is one 
strain — "the Lines on Life," which we have selected, that 
bear the seal of individual and real feeling. We cannot 
but think that in these strains Miss Landon has portrayed 
her own heart ; and the sincerity and simplicity of the ex- 
pression, which always attends real feeling, gives to this 
poem a strong, and stirring interest which her fancies and 
fictions, surpassingly beautiful as they are, can never cre- 
ate. She has lived in the sunshine of the world too much, 
and the "Eastern Tulip" may be the emblem, of her poet- 
ical temperament ; but that she prizes the " little deep 
blue violet " so well, shows that her heart and soul are 
fraught with the love of simple nature, and with those 
warm and sacred emotions that will, when called forth 

" Make the loveliness of home." 



And though — 



" The fire within the poet's heart 

Is fire unquenchable, 
Far may its usual curse depart, 
And light, but not consume, thy heart I 

Sweet minstrel, fare thee well! 
And may for once the laurel wreath 
Not wither all that grows beneath !" 



L. E. L. 119 



LINES OF LIFE. 

Orphan in my first years, I early learnt 
To make my heart suffice itself, and seek 
Support and sympathy in its own depths. 

Well, read ray cheek, and watch my eye, 
Too strictly school'd are they, 

One secret of my soul to show, 
One hidden thought betray. 

I never knew the time my heart 
Look'd freely from my brow ; 

It once was checked by timidness, 
' T is taught by caution now. 

I live among the cold, the false, 

And I must seem like them; 
And such I am, for I am false 

As those I most condemn. 

I teach my lip its sweetest smile, 

My tongue its softest tone ; 
I borrow others' likeness, till 

Almost I lose my own. 

I pass through flattery's gilded sieve, 

Whatever I would say ; 
In social life, all, like the blind. 

Must learn to feel their way. 

I check my thoughts like curbed steeds 
That struggle with the rein ; 



120 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

I bid my feelings sleep, like wrecks 
In the unfathom'd maini. 

I hear them speak of love, the deep, 
The true, — and mock the name j 

Mock at all high and early truth, 
And I too do the same. 

I hear them tell some touching tale, 
I swallow down the tear ; 

I hear them name some generous deed, 
And I have learnt to sneer. 

I hear the spiritual, the kind. 
The pure, but named in mirth ; 

Till all of good, ay, even hope, 
Seems exiled from our earth. 

And one fear, withering ridicule. 

Is all that I can dread; 
A sword hung by a single hair, 

Forever o'er the head. 

We bow to a most servile faith, 

In a most servile fear ; 
While none among us dares to say 

What none will choose to hear. 

And if we dream of loftier thoughts. 
In weakness they are gone ; 

And indolence and vanity 
Rivet our fetters on. 

Surely I was not born for this ! 

I feel a loftier mood 
Of generous impulse, high resolve. 

Steal o'er my solitude ! 



L. E. L. 121 

I gaze upon the thousand stars 

That fill the midnight sky ; 
And wish, so passionately wish, 

A light like theirs on high. 

I hare such eagerness of hope 

To benefit my kind; 
And feel as if immortal power 

Were given to my mind. 

I think on that eternal fame, 

The sun of earthly gloom, 
Which makes the gloriousness of death. 

The future of the tomb — 

That earthly future, the faint sign 

Of a more heavenly one; 
— A step, a word, a voice, a look, — 

Alas ! my dream is done. 

And earth, and earth's debasing stain, 

Again is on my soul ; 
And 1 am but a nameless part 

Of a most worthless whole. 

Why write I this ? because my heart 

Towards the future springs. 
That future where it loves to soar 

On more than eagle wings. 

The present, it is but a speck 

In that eternal time, 
In which my lost hopes find a home, 

My spirit knows its clime. 

Oh ! not myself, — for what am I ? — 
The worthless and the weak, 
11 



122 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Whose every thought of self should raise 
A blush to bum my cheek. 

But song has touch'd my lips with fire, 
And made my heart a shrine ; 

For Avhat, although alloy'd, debased, 
Is in itself divine. 

I am, myself, but a vile link 

Amid life's weary chain ; 
But I have spoken hallow'd words, 

Oh do not say in vain ! 

My first, my last, my only wish, — 
Say, will my charmed chords 

Wake to the morning light of fame, 
And breathe again my words 7 

Will the young maiden, when her tears. 
Alone in moonlight shine — 

Tears for the absent and the loved — 
Murmur some song of mine ? 



'& 



Will the pale youth, by his dim lamp, 

Himself a dying llame, 
From many an antique scroll beside, 

Choose that which bears my name ? 

Let music make less terrible 

The silence of the dead; 
I care not, so my spirit last 

Long after life has tied. 



L. E. L. 123 



FEMALE FAITH. 

She loved you when the sunny light 

Of bliss was on your brow; 
That bliss has sunk in sorrow's nisrht. 

And yet she loves you now. 

She loved you when your joyous tone 

Taught every heart to thrill; 
The sweetness of that tongue is gone, 

And yet — she loves you still. 

She loved you when you proudly stept 

The gayest of the gay ; 
That pride the blight of time hath swept, 

Unlike her love, away. 

She loved you when your home and heart 
Of fortune's smile could boast; 

She saw that smile decay — depart — 
And then she loved you most. 

Oh, such the generous faith that glows 

In woman's gentle breast ; 
'Tis like that star that stays and glows 

Alone in night's dark vest ; 

That stays because each other ray 

Has left the lonely shore. 
And that the wanderer on his way 

Then wants her light the more. 



124 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



MUSINGS. 

Methinks we must have known some former state 
More glorious than our present, and the heart 
Is haunted with dim memories, shadows left 
By past magnificence; and hence we pine 
With vain aspirings, hopes that fill the eyes 
With bitter tears for their own vanity. 
Remembrance makes the poet; 't is the past 
Lingering within him, with a keener sense 
Than is upon the thoughts of common men, 
Of what has been, that fills the actual Avorld 
With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes, 
That were and are not ; and the fairer they. 
The more their contrast with existing things ; 
The more his power, the greater is his grief*. 
— Are we then fallen from some noble star, 
Whose consciousness is as an unknown curse, 
And we feel capable of happiness 
Only to know it is not of our sphere? 

I have sung passionate songs of beating hearts; 
Perhaps it had been better they had drawn 
Their inspiration from an inward source. 
Had I known even an unhappy love. 
It would have flung an interest round life 
Mine never knew. This is an empty wish ; 
Our feelings are not fires to light at will 
Our nature's fine and subtle mysteries ; 
We may control them, but may not create. 
And love less than its fellows. I have fed 
Perhaps too much upon the lotos fruits 
Imagination yields, — fruits which unfit 
The palate for the more substantial food 



L. E. L. 125 

Of our oAvn land — reality. I made 

My heart too like a temple for a home ; 

My thoughts were birds of paradise, that breathed 

The airs of heaven, but died on touching earth. 

— The knight whose deeds were stainless as his crest, 
Who made my name his watchword in the field ; 
The poet with immortal words, whose heart 

I shared with beauty ; or the patriot. 

Whose eloquence was power, who made my smile 

His recompense amid the toil which shaped 

A nation's destiny : these, such as these. 

The glorified — the passionate — the brave — 

In these I might have found the head and heart 

I could have worship'd. Where are such as these ? 

— Not mid gay cavaliers, who make the dance 
Pleasant with graceful flatteries ; whose words 
A passing moment might light up my cheek. 
But haunted not my solitude. The fault 

Has been my own ; perhaps I ask'd too much : — 
Yet let me say, what firmly I believe. 
Love can be — ay, and is. I held that Love 
Which chooseth from a thousand only one, 
To be the object of that tenderness 
Natural to every heart ; which can resign 
Its own best happiness for one dear sake ; 
Can bear with absence; hath no part in Hope, — 
For Hope is somewhat selfish, — Love is not, — 
And doth prefer another to itself. 
Unchangeable and generous, what, like Love, 
Can melt away the dross of worldliness. 
Can elevate, refine, and make the heart 
Of that pure gold which is the fitting shrine 
For fire, as sacred as e'er came from heaven? 
No more of this : — one word may read my heart. 
And that one word is utter weariness ! 
Yet sometimes I look round with vain regret, 
11* 



12G THE LADIES' WREATH. 

And think I will re-string my lute, and nerve 
My woman's band for nobler enterprise ; 
But tbe day never comes. Alas ! we make 
A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step, 
But sleep ourselves at tbe foot : our high resolves 
Look down upon our slumbering acts.. 



THE POET'S POWER. 

On, never had the poet's lute a hope, 

An aim so glorious as it now may have, 

In this our social state, where petty cares 

And mercenary interests only look 

Upon tbe present's littleness, and shrink 

From the bold future, and the stately past, — - 

Where the smooth surfoce of society 

Is polish'd by deceit, and the warm heart 

With all its kind affections' early flow, 

Flung back upon itself, forgets to beat, 

At least for others: — 't is the poet's gift 

To melt these frozen waters into tears, 

By sympathy with sorrows not our own. 

By wakening memory with those mournful notes, 

Whose music is the thoughts of early years, 

When truth was on the lip, and feelings wore 

The sweetness and tbe freshness of their morn. 

Young poet, if thy dreams have not such hope 

To purify, refine, exalt, subdue, 

To touch the selfish, and to shame the vain 

Out of themselves, by gentle mournfulness. 

Or chords that rouse some aim of enterprise, 

Lofty and pure, and meant for general good j 



L. E. L. 127 

If thou hast not some power that may direct 
The mind from the mean round of daily life, 
Waking affections that might else have slept, 
Or high resolves, the petrified before, 
Or rousing in that mind a finer sense 
Of inward and external loveliness. 
Making imagination serve as guide 
To all of heaven that yet remains on earth, — 
Thine is a useless lute : break it, and die. 



THE ADIEU. 

We'll miss her at the morning hour,. 

When leaves and eyes unclose; 
When sunshine calls the dewy flower 

To waken from repose ; 
For, like the singing of a bird. 

When first the sunbeams fall, 
The gladness of her voice was heard 

The earliest of us all. 

We'll miss her at the evening time. 

For then her voice and lute 
Best loved to sing some sweet old rhyme, 

When other sounds were mute. — 
Twined round the ancient window-seat, 

While she was singing there. 
The jasmine from outside would meet. 

And Avreathe her fragrant hair. 

We'll miss her when we gather round 

Our blazing hearth at night. 
When ancient memories abound, 

Or hopes where all unite j 



128 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

And pleasant talk of years to come — 
Those years our fancies Irauie. 

All ! she has now another honie. 
And bears another name. 

Her heart is not with our old hall, 

Nor with the things of yore; 
And yet, methinks she must recall 

What was so dear before. 
She wept to leave the fond roof where 

Slu' had been loved so long, 
Though glad the peal upon the air, 

And gay the bridal throng. 

Yes, memory lias honey cells, 

And some of them are ours; 
For in the sweetest of them dwells 

The dream of early hours. 
The hearth, the hall, the window-seat. 

Will bring us to her mind ; 
In yon wide world she cannot meet 

All that she left behind. 

Loved, and beloved, her own sweet will 

It was that made her fate; 
She has a fairy home — but still 

Our own seems desolate. 
We may not wish her back again, 

Not for her own dear sake : 
Oh, love ! to form one happy chain. 

How many thou, must break ! 



L. E. L. 120 



THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. 

There is a flower, a magical flower, 

On which love hath laid a fiiiry power; 

Gather it on the eve of St. John, 

When the clock of the village is tolling one y 

Let no look be turned, no word be said. 

And lay the rose-leaves under your head y 

Your sleep will be light, and pleasant your rest, 

For your visions will be of the youth you love best. 

Four days I had not my own love seen, — 

Where, sighed I, can my wanderer have been? 

I thought I would gather the magical flower, 

And see him at least in my sleeping hour! — 

St. John's Eve came: to the garden I flew, 

Where the white roses shone with the silver dew; 

The nightingale sang as I passed along — 

I startled to hear even her sweet song; 

The sky was bright with moon and star shine,. 

And the wind was sweet as a whisper of thine, 

Dear love ! for whose sake I stripped the tree-rose, 

And softly and silently stole to repose. 

No look I turned, and no word I said. 

But laid the white roses under my head. 

Oh, sweet was the dream that came to me then! 
I dreamt of a lonely and lovely glen; 
There was a clear and beautiful sky, 
Such as is seen in the blue July ; 
To the north was a forest of darkling pine ; 
To the south were hills all green with the vine, 
Where the ruby clusters sparkled like gems 
Seen upon princely diadems ; 



130 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

On the rocks were goats as white as snow. 

And the sheep-bell was heard in the valley below; 

And like a nest in the chestnut's shade, 

As just for love and contentment made, 

A little cottage stood, and the tree 

Shadowed it over most gracefully ; 

A white rose grew up beside the door. 

The porch with the blossoms was covered o'er; 

Methought it was yours — you were standing by: 

You welcomed me, and I felt your sigh 

Warm on my cheek, and our lips met, — 

On mine the touch is thrilling yet ! 

But, alas ! I awakened, and all I can do 

Is to tell the sweet dream, my own Love, to you ! 



CHANGE. 

And this is what is left of youth ! . . . 

There were two boys, who were bred up together, 

Shared the same bed, and fed at the same board ; 

Each tried the other's sport, from their first chace, 

Young hunters of the butterfly and bee. 

To when they followed the fleet hare, and tried 

The swiftness of the bird. They lay beside 

The silver trout-stream, watching as the sun 

Played on the bubbles ; shared each in the store 

Of either's garden ; and together read 

Of him, the master of the desert isle, 

Till a low hut, a gun, and a canoe, 

Bounded their wishes. Or if ever came 

A thought of future days, 'twas but to say 

That they would share each other's lot, and do 

Wonders, no doubt. But this was vain: they parted 



L. E. L. 131 

With promises of long remembrance, words 

Whose kindness was the heart's, and those warm tears 

Hidden like shame by the young eyes which shed them 

But which are thought upon in after years, 

As what we would give worlds to shed once more. 

They met again, — but different from themselves. 
At least what each remembered of themselves: 
The one proud as a soldier of his rank. 
And of his many battles; and the other 
Proud of his Indian wealth, and of the skill 
And toil which gathered it; each with a brow 
And heart alike darkened by years and care. 
They met with cold words, and yet colder looks: 
Each was changed in himself, and yet each thought 
The other only changed, himself the same. 
And coldness bred dislike, and rivalry 
Came like the pestilence o'er some sweet thoughts, 
That lingered yet, healthy and beautiful. 
Amid dark and unkindly ones. And they, 
Whose boyhood had not known one jarring word, 
Were strangers in their age : if their eyes met, 
'T was but to look contempt, and when they spoke. 
Their speech was wormwood ! . . . . 
.... And this, this is life ! 



132 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



WOMAN'S DESTINY. 

*' I am a woman : — tell me not of fame ! 

The eagle's wing may sweep the stormy path, 

And fling back arrows, where the dove would die. 

Look on those flowers near yon acacia tree — 

The lily of the valley — mark how pure 

The snowy blossoms, — and how soft a breath 

Is almost hidden by the large dark leaves. 

Not only have those delicate floAvers a gift 

Of sAveetness and of beauty, but the root — 

A healing power dwells there ; fragrant and fair, 

But dwelling still in some beloved shade. 

Is not this. woman's emblem? — she whose smile 

Should only make the loveliness of home — 

Who seeks support and shelter from man's heart, 

And pays it with affection quiet, deep, — 

And in his sickness — sorrow — with an aid 

He did not deem in aught so fragile dwelt. 

Alas ! this has not been my destiny. 

Again I'll borrow Summer's eloquence. 

Yon Eastern tulip — that is emblem mine; 

Ay I it has radiant colors — every leaf 

Is as a gem from its own country's mines. 

'T is redolent with sunshine; but with noon 

It has begun to Avither : — look within, 

It has a wasted bloom, a burning heart; 

It has dAvelt too much in the open day. 

And so have I ; and both must droop and die ! 

I did not choose my gift : — too soon my heart. 

Watch-like, had pointed to a later hour 

Than time had reach'd ; and as my years' pass'd on. 

Shadows and floating visions grew to thoughts, 

And thoughts found words,the passionate words of song, 

And all to me Avas poetry. 



L. E. L. 133 



SONG. 

Farewell! — we shall not meet again 

As we are parting now ! 
I must my beating heart restrain — 

Must veil my burning brow ! 
Oh, I must coldly learn to hide 

One thought, all else above — 
Must call upon my woman's pride 

To hide my woman's love ! 
Check dreams I never may avow; 
Be free, be careless, cold as thou! 

Oh! those are tears of bitterness, 

Wrung from the breaking heart, 
When two blest in their tenderness, 

Must learn to live — apart ! 
But what are they to that lone sigh, 

That cold and fixed despair, 
That weight of wasting agony 

It must be mine to bear? 
Methinks I should not thus repine. 
If I had but one vow of thine. 

Farewell ! we have not often met, — 

We may not meet again ; 
But on my heart the seal is set 

Love never sets in vain ! 
Fruitless as constancy may be, 
No chance, no change, may turn from thee 
One who has loved thee wildly, well, — 
But whose first love-vow breathed — farewell. 
12 



134 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



MONT BLANC. 

" Heaven knows our travellers have sufficiently alloyed the beau- 
tiful, and profaned the sublime, by associating these with themselves, 
the common-place, and the ridiculous; but out upon them, thus to 
tread on the gray hair of centuries, — on the untrodden snows of 
Mont Blanc." 

Thou monarch of the open air, 

Thou mighty temple given 

For morning's earliest of light, 

And evening's last of heaven. 

The vapor from the marsh, the smoke 

From crowded cities sent. 

Are purified before they reach 

Thy loftier element. 

Thy hues are not of earth, but heaven ; 

Only the sunset rose 

Hath leave to fling a crimson dye 

Upon thy stainless snows. 

Now^ out on those adventurers 

Who scaled thy breathless height. 

And made thy pinnacle, Mont Blanc, 

A thing for common sight. 

Before that human step had felt 

Its sully on thy broAv, 

The glory of thy forehead made 

A shrine to those below : 

Men gazed upon thee as a star. 

And turned to earth again, 

With dreams like thine own floating clouds. 

The vague but not the vain. 



L. E. L. 135 

No feelings are less vain than those 

That bear the mind away, 

Till blent with nature's mysteries 

It half forgets its clay. 

It catches loftier impulses ; 

And owns a nobler power ; 

The poet and philosopher 

Are born of such an hour. 

But now, where may we seek a place 

For any spirit's dream ; 

Our steps have been o'er every soil, 

Our sails o'er every stream. 

Those isles, the beautiful Azores, 

The fortunate, the fair ! 

We looked for their perpetual spring 

To find it was not there. 

Bright El Dorado, land of gold, 

We have so sought for thee, 

There's not a spot in all the globe 

Where such a land can be. 

How pleasant were the wild beliefs, 

That dwelt in legends old, 

Alas ! to our posterity 

Will no such tales be told. 

We know too much, scroll after scroll 

Weighs down our weary shelves ; 

Our only point of ignorance 

Is centered in ourselves. 

Alas ! for thy past mystery. 

For thine untrodden snow. 

Nurse of the tempest, hadst thou none 

To guard thy outraged brow ? 

Thy summit, once the unapproached. 

Hath human presence owned. 

With the first step upon thy crest, 

Mont Blanc thou wert dethron'd. 



136 THE LADIES* WREATH. 



PORTRAIT PAINTING. 

Divinest art, the stars above 
Were fated on thy birth to shine; 

Oh, born of beauty and of love, 
What early poetry was thine 1 

The softness of Ionian night 

Upon Ionian summer lay, 
One planet gave its vesper light, 

Enough to guide a lover's way ; 
And gave the fountain as it play'd 

The semblance of a silvery shower, 
And as its waters fell, they made 

A music meet for such an hour : 
That, and the tones the gentle wind 

Won from the leaf, as from a lute 
In natural melody combined, 

Now that all ruder sound was mute ; 
And odors floated on the air. 

As many a nymph had just unbound 
The wreath that braided her dark hair, 

And flung the fragrant tresses round. 

Pillow'd on violet leaves, which prest 

Fill'd the sweet chamber with their sighs, 
Lull'd by the lyre's low notes to rest, 

A Grecian youth in slumber lies ; 
And at his side a maiden stands, 

The dark hair braided on her brow, 
The lute within her slender hands. 

But hush'd is all its music now; 
She would not wake him from his dreams, 

Although she has so much to say. 



L. E. L. 137 

Although the morning's earliest beams 

Will see her warrior far away : 
How fond and earnest is the gaze 

Upon these sleeping features thrown, 
She who yet never dared to raise 

Her timid eyes to meet his own. 

She bends her lover's rest above, 

Thoughtful with gentle hopes and fears, 
And that unutterable love 

Which never yet spoke but in tears ! 
She would not that those tears should fall 

Upon the cherish'd sleeper's face ; 
She turns and sees upon the wall 

Its imaged shade, its perfect grace. 
With eager hand she mark'd each line — 

The shadowy brow, the arching head — 
Till some creative power divine 

Love's likeness o'er Love's shadow spread. 
Since then, what passion and what power 

Has dwelt upon the painter's art ! 
How has it soothed the absent hour, 

With looks that wear life's loveliest part ! 



12=* 



138 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF MRS. HEMANS. 

" The rose — the glorious rose is gone." 

Nightingale's Death Song. 

Bring flowers to crown the cup and lute, — 

Bring flowers, — the bride is near ; 
Bring flowers to soothe the captive's cell, — 

Bring flowers to strew the bier ! 
Bring flowers ! thus said the lovely songj 

And shall they not be brought 
To her who linked the offering 

With feeling and with thought ? 

Bring flowers, — the perfumed and the pure, — 

Those with the morning dew, 
A sigh in every fragrant leaf, 

A tear on every hue. 
So pure, so sweet thy life has been, 

So filling earth and air 
With odors and with loveliness, 

Till common scenes grew fair. 

Thy song around our daily path 

Flung beauty born of dreams. 
That shadows on the actual world 

The spirit's sunny gleams. 
Mysterious influence, that to earth 

Brings down the Heaven above, 
And fills the universal heart 

With universal love. 

Such gifts were thine, — as from the block. 

The unformed and the cold, 
The sculptor calls to breathing life 
Some shape of perfect mould. 



L. E. L. 139 

So thou from common thoughts and things 

Didst call a charmed song, 
Which on a sweet and swelling tide 

Bore the full soul along. 

And thou from far and foreign lands 

Didst bring back many a tone, 
And giving such new music still, 

A music of thine own. 
A lofty strain of generous thoughts, 

And yet subdued and sweet, — 
An angel's song, who sings of earth, 

Whose cares are at his feet. 

And yet thy song is sorrowful. 

Its beauty is not bloom; 
The hopes of which it breathes, are hopes 

That look beyond the tomb; 
Thy song is sorrowful as winds 

That wander o'er the plain, 
And ask for Summer's vanished flowers, 

And ask for them in vain. 

Ah ! dearly purchased is the gift, 

The gift of song like thine ; 
A fated doom is hers who stands 

The priestess of the shrine. 
The crowd — they only see the crown. 

They only hear the hymn; — 
They mark not that the cheek is pale, 

And that the eye is dim. 

Wound to a pitch too exquisite, 

The soul's fine chords are wrung ; 
With misery and melody 

They are too highly strung. 
The heart is made too sensitive 

Life's daily pain to bear ; 



140 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

It beats in music, but it beats 
Beneath a deep despair. 

It never meets the love it paints. 

The love for which it pines; 
Too much of Heaven is in the faith 

That such a heart enshrines. 
The meteor wreath the poet wears 

Must make a lonely lot ; 
It dazzles, only to divide. 

From those who wear it not. 

Didst thou not tremble at thy fame. 

And loathe its bitter prize, 
While what to others triumph seemed. 

To thee was sacrifice ? 
Oh, Flower brought from Paradise, 

To this cold world of ours, 
Shadows of beauty such as thine 

Recall thy native bowers. 

Let others thank thee — 't was for them 

Thy soft leaves thou didst wreathe; 
The red rose wastes itself in sighs 

Whose sweetness others breathe ! 
And they have thanked thee — many a lip 

Has asked of thine for words, 
When thoughts. Life's finer thoughts, have touched 

The spirit's inmost chords. 

How many loved and honored thee 

Who only knew thy name ; 
Which o'er the weary working world 

Like starry music came ? 
With what still hours of calm delight 

Thy songs and image blend; 
I cannot choose but think thou wert 

An old familiar friend. 



L. E. L. HI 



The charms that dwelt in songs of thine 

My inmost spirit moved ; 
And yet I feel as thou hadst been 

Not half enough beloved. 
They say that thou wert faint and worn 

With suffering and with care ; 
What music must have filled the soul 

That had so much to spare ! 

Oh ! weary one ! since thou art laid 

Within thy mother's breast — 
The green, the quiet mother-earth — 

Thrice blessed be thy rest ! 
Thy heart is left within our hearts. 

Although Life's pang is o'er ; 
But the quick tears are in my eyes, 

And I can write no more. 



CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON.* 



The Hon. Mrs. Norton is one of those favored mortals 
who, by birthright, inherit talents, and therefore, for her to 
become an authoress was not considered wonde]*ful, as is 
usually the case with female writers. The grand-daughter 
of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, could be no ordinary woman. 
Distinguished for beauty and gracefulness, among the gay 
circle in which she was native, as the "queenly Dahlia" is 
among the garden flowers, she added to the list of her ac- 
complishments, that more dazzling, because less common 
endowment, genius, early displayed, and hitherto stead- 
ily improving. At the age of twelve years she composed 
"The Dandies' Ball," a poetical description of a little book, 
then quite the rage. — "The Sorrows of Rosalie," was 
her next production, issued in 1829, about two years after 
her marriage. Since that period she has published seve- 
ral works, besides editing for some time past " The Court 
Journal." — The longest Poem of Mrs. Norton's — " The Un- 



* There is a handsome English edition of her Poems in two vol- 
umes : only a small selection from these have been reprinted in 
America. Her Prose works, " The Wife, and Woman's Reward," 
" The Coquette," and her shorter stories are all familiar to Amer- 
ican readers, as well as to the London public ; and her fugitive lyri- 
cal compositions are very popular. 



MRS. NORTON. 143 

dying One," was evidently writtenwithmuch thought ; the 
inclination of her mind leading her, doubtless, to the effort, 
as one which would be more distinguished, than short lyr- 
ical compositions. The subject was not well suited to her 
powers ; it requires the deep, daring energy of a Byron or a 
Shelley to portray the dark, despairing and unholy passions 
which such a being as Isbal must have indulged. Never- 
theless, our poetess has noi failed — the story is skil- 
fully drawn out, and there are many touches of tenderness 
and love which are inimitable. But we better like her 
short poems : in these she displays more freedom and grace, 
more of the true poetical fervor which can invest com- 
mon feelings and natural objects with the light of song 
making treasures of these simple and humble things which 
the heart will hoard, and the memory retain. There is a 
resemblance between the poetic characteristics of Mrs. Nor- 
ton and those of Barry Cornwall — both excel in the de- 
scriptive; both have great facility of versification ; and 
there is a similar delicacy in their taste and fancy. But 
Barry Cornwall inclines sometimes to odd conceits and 
quaint old phrases, the affectation or the effect of more pro- 
found learning than any fair poetess would be likely to dis- 
play. Yet Mrs. Norton has a mind which might be greatly 
improved by study. Hers is not that fire-fly genius which 
shines sweetly on the fresh grass, or resting on a rose-bush 
in full blossom ; but which is chilled and sunk by the first 
dark storm or cold frost. She has strength as well as 
beauty and sprightliness in her lay- Some of her prose 
writings show great power of portraying character, as 
well as of delineating the manners of society. In short, 
few of our literary ladies at her age. twenty-seven, have 
written so much and so well as Mrs. Norton. She has 
made literature her amusement along the rose-strewed path 
of life — she will find it a resource and solace amid its 
thorns. 



144 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



ALL IS FORGOTTEN. 

How strange that earth, our earth should share 

So little in our crime and care I 

The billows of the treacherous main 

Gape for the wreck, and close again 

With daring smiles, as if the deep 

Had whelm'd not With eternal sleep 

Many and many a warm young heart. 

Which swell'd to meet, and bled to part. 

The battle-plain its verdant breast 

Will show in bright and sunny vest, 

Although its name is now a word. 

Through sobs, and moans, and wailing heard ; 

And many mourn'd for from afar, 

There died the writhing death of war. 

Yea, e'en the stream, by whose cool side, 

Lay those who thirsted for its tide, 

Yearning for some young hand of yore. 

Wont in bright hours, with smiles to pour 

The mantling wine of him whose blood 

Is mixing with the glassy flood — 

Ev'n that pure fountain gushes by 

With all its former brilliancy ; 

Nor bears with it one tint to show 

How crimson it began to flow. 

And thus an echo takes the tone 

Of agony ; and when 't is gone. 

Air, earth and sea forget the sound. 

And all is still and silent round. 

And thus upon the cherished grave 

The sunbeams smile, the branches wave ; 

And all our tears for those who now are not, 

Sink in the flowery turf — and are forgot ! 



MRS. NORTON. 145 



WE SHALL MEET NO MORE ! 

We shall meet no more on the sunny hill, 

Where the lonely wild flower springs and dies ; 
We shall meet no more by the murmuring rill, 

Where the blue cool waters idly rise ; 
The sunshine and flowers all bright remain 

In their lonely beauty, as of yore ; 
But to me 't will never be bright again — 

We shall meet no more ! we shall meet no more! 

We shall meet no more in the lighted halls 

Amid happy faces and gay young hearts ; 
I may listen in vain as each footstep falls, 

I may watch in vain as each form departs ! 
There are laughing voices, but thy young tone 

Its cheerful greeting hath ceased to pour ; 
TTiy form from the dancing train is gone — 

We shall meet no more ! we shall meet no more ! 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 

I SAW a widow by her cherished son, 
Ere all of life, and light, and hope was gone — 
When the last dying glance was faintly raised. 
Ere death with withering power the brightness glazed 
Of those deep heavenly eyes: a glance which seem'd 
To ask her, if the world where he had dream'd 
Such dreams of happiness with her, must be 
Forsaken in the spring-tide of his glee ; 
13 



146 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

If he indeed must die. I saw her take 
His hand and gaze, as if her heart would break, 
On his pale brow and languid lips of grace. 
And wipe the death-dew gently from his face. 
I saw her after, when the unconscious clay 
Deaf to her wild appeals, all mutely lay, 
With brow upturn'd, and parted lips, whose hue 
Was scarce more pale than hers, who met my view. 
She stood, and wept not in her deep despair, 
But press'd her lips upon his shining hair. 
With a long bitter kiss, and then with grief, — 
Like hers of old, who pray'd and found relief — 
She groan'd to God, and watch'd to see him stir; 
But, ah ! no prophet came, to raise him up for her ! 



THE PO£T. 

I SAW the dark and city-clouded spot, 

Where, by his busy patrons all forgot. 

The young, sad poet, dreams of better days, 

Andgives his genius forth in darken'd rays. 

Chill o'er his soul, gaunt poverty hath thrown 

Her veil of shadows, as he sighs alone ; 

And, withering up the springs and streams of youth. 

Left him to feel misfortune's bitter truth, 

And own with deep impassion'd bitterness, 

Who would describe, must faintly feel, distress. 

Slowly he wanders, with a languid pace. 

To the small window of his hiding-place; 

Pressing with straining force, all vainly now. 

His hot, weak fingers on his throbbing brow; 

And seeking for bright thoughts, which care and pain 

Have driven from his dim and wilder'd brain. 

He breathes a moment that unclouded air. 



MRS. NORTON. 147 

And gazes on the face of nature there — 
Longing for fresh wild flowers and verdant fields, 
And all the joys that open sunshine yields: 
Then, turning, he doth rest his heavy eye 
Where his torn papers in confusion lie, 
And raves awhile, and seats himself again, 
To toil and strive for thoughts and words, in vain: 
Till he can bid h s dr oping fancy feel. 
And barter genius for a scanty meal ! 



WOMAN'S LOVE. 

To worship silently at some heart's shrine, 

And feel, but paint not, all its fire in thine : 

To pray for that heart's hopes when thine are gone. 

Nor let its after coldness chill thine own : 

To hold that one, with every fault, more dear 

Than all who whisper fondness in thine ear: 

To joy thee in his joy, and silently 

Meet the upbraiding of his angry eye : 

To bear unshrinking all the blood of fate. 

Save that which leaves thy sorrow desolate ; 

Nor deem that woe, which thou canst feel is still 

Borne with him, and for Jiim ; through every ill 

To smile on^isk,'^nor weep, save when apart, 

God, and God only, looks into thy heart: 

To keep unchanged thy calm, pure, quiet love, / 

If he, inconstant, doth a new one prove : <%>\Qy\/^^'^ ^y/^^^""^ 

To love all round him as a part of him, 

Ev'n her he worships: — though thine eye be dim 

With weeping for thyself: to pray that not 

One cloud may darken o'er their earthly lot ; 

With the afi'ection of true hearts, to see 

His happiness, which doth not hang on thee ;— 

Oh ! this is woman's love — its joy — its pain ; 

And this — it hath been felt — and felt in vain. 



1 



148 THE LADIES' WREATH 



THE FALLEN LEAVES. 

We stand among the fallen leaves, 

Young children, at our play — 
And laugh to see the yellow things 

Go rustling on their way ; 
Right merrily we hunt them down, 

The autumn winds and we, 
Nor pause to gaze where snow-drifts lie, 

Or sunbeams gild the tree. 
With dancing feet we leap along 

Where wither'd boughs are strown, 
Nor past nor future checks our song — 

The present is our own. 

We stand among the fallen leaves, 

In youth's enchanted spring — 
When Hope (who wearies at the last) 

First spreads her eagle wing; 
We tread with steps of conscious strength 

Beneath the leafless trees, 
And the color kindles in our cheek. 

As blows the winter breeze ; 
While gazing t'wards the cold grey sky. 

Clouded with snow and rain, 
We wish the old year all pass'd by. 

And the young spring come again. 

We stand among the fallen leaves. 
In manhood's haughty prime — 

When first our pausing hearts begin 
To love " the olden time ; " 

And, as we gaze we sigh to think 
How many a year hath passed, 



MRS. NORTON. 149 

Since, 'neath these cold and faded trees, 

Our footsteps wandered last ; 
And old companions — now perchance 

Estranged, forgot, or dead — 
Come round us as those autumn leaves 

Are crush'd beneath our tread ! 

We stand among the fallen leaves, 

In our own autumn day — 
And, tottering on with feeble steps, 

Pursue our cheerless way ; 
We look not back — too long ago 

Hath all we loved been lost ! 
Nor forward — for we may not live 

To see our new hope cross'd; 
But on we go — the sun's faint beam 

A feebler warmth imparts — 
Childhood without its joy returns — 

The present fills our hearts ! 



FRIENDSHIP. 

We have been friends together, 

In sunshine and in shade, 
Since first beneath the chestnut trees 

In infancy we played. 
But coldness dwells within thy heart, 

A cloud is on thy brow ; 
We have been friends together — 

Sh^U a light word part us now 1 

We have been gay together ; 

We have laughed at little jests — 
For the fount of hope was gushing 

Warm and joyous in our breasts, 
13* 



150 THE LADIES' WREATH. | 

But laughter now hath fled thy lip, 

And sullen glooms thy brow ; I 

We have been gay together — 

Shall a light word part us now? 

We have been sad together ; 

We have wept with bitter tears 
O'er the grass-grown graves, where slumbered 

The hopes of early years. 
The voices which were silent there 

Would bid thee clear thy brow; 
We have been sad together — 

Shall a light word part us now ? 



THY WILL BE DONE ! 

Thy will be done ! how hard a thing to say 
When sickness ushers in death's dreary knell, — 
When eyes, that lately sparkled bright and gay, 
Wander around with dimly conscious ray. 
To some familiar face, to bid farewell ! 

Thy will be done ! — the falt'ring lips deny 

A passage to the tones as yet unheard ; 

The sob sonvulsed, the raised and swimming eye 

Seem as appealing to their God on high 

For power to breathe the yet imperfect word. 

Orphan ! who watchest by the silent tomb 
Where those who gave thee life all coldly sleep ; 
Or thou, who sittest in thy desolate home. 
Calling to those beloved who cannot come. 
And, thinking o'er thy loneliness, dost weep! 



MRS. NORTON. 151 

Widow ! who musest over by-gone years 

Of life, and love, and happiness with him 

Who shared thy joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, 

Who now art left to shed unnoticed tears, 

Till thy fair cheek is wan, and eyes grow dim! 

Husband ! who dreamest of thy gentle wife, 
And still in fancy see'st her rosy smile 
Brightening a world of bitterness and strife ; 
Who from the lonely future of thy life 
Turnest, in dreariness, to weep the while ! 

Mother I whose prayers could not avail to save 
Him whom thou lovedst most, thy blue-eyed boy ! 
Who with a bitter agony dost rave 
To the wild winds that fan his early grave, 
And dashedst from thy lips the cup of joy ! 

And thou, not widowed, yet bereaved one. 
Who, buried in thy tearless, mute despair, 
Roamest a desert world alone — alone. 
To seek him out who from thine eyes is gone. 
Scarce able to believe he is not there ! 

Mourners ! who linger in a world of woe. 
Each, bowing 'neath his separate load of grief, 
Turn from the silent tomb, and, kneeling low 
Before that throne at which the angels bow, 
Invoke a God of mercy for relief! 

Pray that ye too may journey, when ye die. 
To that far world where blessed souls are gone, 
And, through the gathering sob of agony. 
Raise, with a voice resigned, the humble cry, 
"Father — Creator — Lord — thy will be done!" 



152 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF A FADED BEAUTY. 

Ah ! I remember, when I was a girl , 

How my hair naturally used to curl, 

And how my aunt four yards of net would pucker, 

And call the odious thing "Diana's tucker." 

I hated it, because although, you see, 

It did for her^ it did'nt do for me. 

(Popkins said I should wear a low corsage^ 

But this I know was merely badinage.) 

I recollect the gaieties of old — 

Ices when hot, and punch when we were cold ! 

Race-balls, and county-balls, and balls where you, 

For seven shillings, got dance and supper too. 

Oh ! I remember all the routs and plays — 

" But words are idle," as Lord Byron saysj 

And so am I, and therefore can spare time, 

To put my recollections into rhyme. 

I recollect the man who did declare 

When I was at the fair^ myself was fair: 

(I had it in my album for three years, 

And often looked, and shed delicious tears.) 

I didn't fall in love, however, then^ 

Because I never saw that man again. 

And I remember Popkins — ah ! too well ! 
And all who once in love with Chlo6 fell. 
They called me Chloe, for they said my grace 
Was nymph-like, as was also half my face. 
My mouth was wide, but then I had a smile 
Which might a demon of its tears beguile, — 
As Captain Popkins said, or rather swore. 
He liked me, (ah ! my Popkins !) all the more. 
He couldn't bear a little mouth ; for when 



MRS. NORTON. 153 

It laughed, 'twas like a long slit in a pen ; 
Or button-hole stretched on too big a button ; 
Or little cut for gravy in boiled mutton. 
(Popkins was clever) — but I must proceed 
More regularly, that my friends may read. 
I didn't marry, for I couldn't get 
A man I liked ; I havn't got one yet ; 
But I had handsome lovers by the score : 
Alas ! alas ! I always sighed for more ! 



TRUE LOVE. 

To look upon the fairy one, who stands 

Before you, with her young hair's shining bands, 

And rosy lips half parted ; — and to muse. 

Not on the features which you now peruse. — 

Not on the blushing bride, — but look beyond 

Unto the aged wife, nor feel less fond : 

To feel, that while thy arm can strike them dead, 

No breathing soul shall harm that gentle head : 

To know, that none with fierce and sudden strife 

Shall tear thee from her, save with loss of life : 

To keep thee but to one, and let that one 

Be to thy home, what warmth is to the sun ; 

To gaze and find no change, when time hath made 

Youth's dazzling beauty darken into shade. 

But fondly — firmly — cling to her, nor fear 

The fading touch of life's declining year: — 

This is true love, when it hath found a rest 

In the deep home of manhood's faithless breast. 



154 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME. 

I HAVE tasted each varied pleasure, 

And drank of the cup of delight ; 
I have danced to the gayest measure 

In the halls of dazzling light. 
I have dwelt in a blaze of splendor, 

And stood in the courts of kings ; 
I have snatched at each toy that could render 

More rapid the flight of Time's wings. 
But vainly I've sought for joy or peace, 

In the life of light and shade j 
And I turn with a sigh to my own dear home — • 

That home where my childhood played. 

When jewels are sparkling round me, 

And dazzling with their rays 
I weep for ties that bound me 

In life's first early days. 
I sigh for one of the sunny hours 

Ere day was turned to night ; 
For one of my nosegays of fresh wild flowers, 

Instead of those jewels bright. 
I weep when I gaze on the scentless buds 

Which never can bloom or fade ; 
And I turn with a sigh to those gay green fields 

The home where my childhood played. 



MRS. NORTON. 155 



MUSIC'S POWER. 

Have you not heard, in music's sound, 

Some chords which o'er your heart 
First fling a moment's magic round, 

Then silently depart ? 
But when the echo on the air 

Roused by that simple lay, 
It leaves a world of feeling there 

We cannot chase away. 
Yes, yes, — a sound hath power to bid them come — 
Youth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's remembered home. 

When sitting in your silent home 

You gaze around and weep, 
Or call to those who cannot come, 

Nor wake from dreamless sleep; 
Those chords, so oft as you bemoan 

" The distant and the dead," 
Bring dimly back the fancied tone 

Of some sweet voice that's fled ! 
Yes, yes, — a sound hath power to bid them come — 
Youth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's remembered home. 

And when, amid the festal throng, 

You are, or would be gay — 
And seek to 'wile, with dance and song. 

Your sadder thoughts away, — 
They strike those chords, and smiles depart. 

As, rushing o'er your soul. 
The untold feelings of the heart 
Awake and spurn control ! 
Yes, yes, — a sound hath power to bid them come — 
Youth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's remembered home. 



MARY HOWITT. 



Gentle, pure-hearted poetess — we cannot call thee Mis- 
tress Howitt ! — albeit thou art the wedded wife of a poet, 
worthy to bestow his name and the matronly title upon thee. 
But thy address should agree with the sweet, unpretending 
character of thy verse, which, like the Violet, is sought the 
more for its modest simplicity ; and so we shall continue to 
speak of thee by that name, so dear to all lovers of true, 
heart-touching poetry — Mary Howitt. 

We think Mary Howitt must always have been poetical. 
There is an ease in all her productions, and a playfulness 
of fancy in many of them which could never have been 
gained by study. She has a warm love of nature, and of 
children — feelings that imbue the soul of a woman with 
the spirit of poesy — and then she is pious, tenderly, sin- 
cerely pious; and the subjects she chooses seem to harmon- 
ize with the tenor of her thoughts, like household words in 
a loving family. She has, also, a taste for the mystical, 
just sufficient to throw an air of romance over the every-day 
scenes of life, and give to the old traditions of fairy lore, 
that reality which makes its teachings 

" A lesson not to be unlearned." 

The poems of Mary Howitt have chiefly appeared in the 
periodicals, or in works in which she has been associated 



MARY HOWITT. 157 

with her husband, William Howitt. Her last production, 
" The Seven Temptations," has not been republished in 
America; it well deserves to be, as it is imbued with those 
pious teachings which, invested in the garb of moving po- 
etry, have a deep and abiding effect on the young. 

There is in many parts of this work, as well as in some 
of her shorter poems, that fervor and power of expression 
which evince a genius of the first order. We think she 
has many of the best characteristics of Wordsworth's style 
— though no imitation, or the least touch of mannerism is 
chargeable on our sweet poetess. But, like the lyrist of na- 
ture, she can create a scene of beauty where common eyes 
would see only a rough landscape — and draw forth tones of 
love and sympathy from chords which, in a less delicate 
and skilful hand, would breathe only harsh and repelling 
dissonance. 

Mary Howitt has many advantages which will facilitate 
her literary progress. She is united to a man of fine genius 
and pure taste, and is encouraged by his approbation and 
example to cultivate her own powers. This is a felicity 
which few literary ladies have enjoyed, and the gentle and 
womanly manner in which she employs her talents shows 
that she appreciates her own happy lot. The religion of 
the Gluakers, in which faith this gifted and amiable pair 
were educated, is very favorable to female genius. The 
influences of the spirit are equally encouraged and regard- 
ed in both sexes ; hence a soul-companionship is establish- 
ed between husband and wife, which, if they are endowed 
with fine talents and warm sensibilities, like the Howitts, 
must make their home a scene of improvement and delight. 

"For them the wreath of love was woven 



With sparkling stars for flowers." 
14 



158 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



SPRING. 

The spring — she is a blessed thing ! 

She is the mother of the flowers ; 
She is the mate of birds and bees, 
The partner of their revelries, 

Our star of hope through wintry hours. 

The merry children, when they see 

Her coming, by the budding thorn. 
They leap upon the cottage floor. 
They shout beside the cottage door, 
And run to meet her, night and morn. 

They are soonest with her in the woods, 

Peeping, the withered leaves among, 
To find the earliest, fragrant thing 
That dares from the cold earth to spring, 
Or catch the earliest wild-bird's song. 

The little brooks run on in light, 

As if they had a chase of mirth; 
The skies are blue, the air is warm. 
Our very hearts have caught the charm 
That sheds a beauty over earth. 

The aged man is in the field ; 

The maiden 'mong her garden flowers ; 
The sons of sorrow and distress 
Are wandering in forgetfulness 

Of wants that fret and care that lowers. 



MARY HOWITT. 159 

She comes with more than present good — 

With joys to store for future years, 
From which, in striving crowds apart, 
The bowed in spirit, bruised in heart. 

May glean up hope with grateful tears. 

Up — let us to the fields away, 

And breathe the fresh and balmy air: 

The bird is building in the tree, 

The flower has opened to the bee. 
And health, and love, and peace are there ! 



TRADITIONARY BALLAD. 

THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON-LOW. — A MIDSUMMER LEGEND. 

" And where have you been, my Mary, 
And where have you been from me ? " 

"I've been at the top of the Caldon-Low, " 
The Midsummer night to see ! " 

" And what did you see, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon-Low?" 
" I saw the blithe sunshine come down, 

And I saw the merry winds blow." 

" And what did you hear, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon-Hill'? " 
" I heard the drops of the water made, 

And the green corn ears to fill." 

" Oh tell me all, ray Mary, — 
All, all that ever you know ; 



160 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

For you must have seen the fairies, 
Last night, on Caldon-Low." 

" Then take me on your knee, mother, 
And listen, mother of mine : — 

A hundred fairies danced last night. 
And the harpers they were nine. 

"And merry was the glee of the harp-strmgs, 
And their dancing feet so small ; 

But, oh, the sound of their talking 
Was merrier far than all ! " 

" And what were the words, my Mary, 
That you did hear them say 1 " 

" I'll tell you all, my mother — ' 
But let me have my way ! 

" And some, they played with the water, 

And roll'd it down the hill; 
' And this,' they said, ' shall speedily turn 

The poor old miller's mill; 

" ' For there has been no water 

Ever since the first of May ; 
And a busy man shall the miller be 

By the dawning of the day ! 

" ' Oh, the miller, how he will laugh. 
When he sees the mill-dam rise ! 

The jolly old miller, how he will laugli, 
Till the tears fill both his eyes ! ' 

" And some, they seized the little winds. 
That sounded over the hill, 



MARY HOWITT. 161 

And each put a horn into his mouth, 
And blew so sharp and shrill — 

" ' And there,' said they, ' the merry winds go, 

Away from every horn ; 
And those shall clear the mildew dank, 

From the blind old widow's corn ! 

" ' Oh, the poor, blind old widow — 

Though she has been blind so long, 
She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone, 

And the corn stands stiff and strong ! ' 

" And some, they brought the brown lint-seed. 

And flung it down from the Low — 
'And this,' said they, 'by the sun rise. 

In the weaver's croft shall grow ! 

" ' Oh, the poor, lame weaver, 

How will he laugh outright, 
When he sees his dwindling flax field 

All full of flowers by night ! ' 

" And then upspoke a brownie, 

With a long beard on his chin — 
' I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 

*And I want some more to spin. 

" ' I've spun a piece of hempen cloth. 

And I want to spin another — 
A little sheet for Mary's bed, 

And an apron for her mother ! ' 

'' And with that I could not help but laugh, 
And I laughed out loud and free j 
14* 



162 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

And then on the top of the Caldon-Low 
There was no one left but me. 

" And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low, 
The mists were cold and gray. 

And nothing I saw but the mossy stones 
That round about me lay. 

"But as I came down from the hill-top, 

I heard a jar below ; 
How busy the jolly miller was, 

And how merry the wheel did go ! 

"And I peep'd into the widow's field, 
And, sure enough, was seen 

The yellow ears of the mildewed corn 
All standing: stiff and srreen. 



&' 



"And down by the weaver's croft I stole, 
To see if the flax were high ; 

But I saw the weaver at his gate. 
With the good news in his eye ! 

" Now, this is all I heard, mother, 

And all that I did see ; 
So, prythee, make my bed, mother, 

For I am tired as I can be ! " 



MARY HO WITT. 163 



THE LADY AND THE SEA CAPTAIN. 

'TwAs in a palace garden 

I met my lady fair; 
A stately palace garden, 
A-taking of the air — 

A-taking of the pleasant air, 

One merry morn in June ; 
And she was singing to herself 

A soft, enchanting tune. 

Among the shady cypresses 

She made a little stand; 
Her dainty foot so lightly set, 

And a fan within her hand. 

I never saw a crowned queen 

With such a noble air; 
So angel like, so womanly, 

As is my lady fair ! 

I could not keep my silence, 
So through the trees I broke, 

And thus unto my lady fair. 
With right good will I spoke : 

"I am a bold Sea Captain: 
The Q,ueen she loveth me: 

My palace is a noble ship. 
My garden is the sea. 



164 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

" Two hundred merry mariners 
They do my bidding well; 

And the gold that in my coffer lies 
Is more than I can tell. 

" There's many a heart that beats for me 
Beyond the heaving main — 

The black-eyed girls of Mexico, 
The ladies of New Spain ! 

" But, beautiful although they be, 
They win no love of mine: 

I'd give a thousand flashing eyes 
For but one glance of thine I " 

My lady love, divinely bright, 

She blushed all rosy red; 
And turned on me her heavenly eyes, 

But not a word she said. 

"I've loved thee well, my lady bright," 

I said, " for many a year ; 
Thou know'st we set the roses. 

That grow so lovely here. 

" What though we were but children then 
We loved — so do we now!" 

My lady cast her eyes adown. 
And blushed o'er cheek and brow. 

I took her lily hand in mine, 

And to my lips I pressed; 
But a tear from out her drooping eyes 

Fell pearl-like on her breast. 



MARY HOWITT. 165 

" Now, now, by every saint in heaven," 

I cried, " my lady dear. 
May I be banned for every word 

That causeth thee a tear ! " 

" Nay," she said, like an angel. 

And sweetly smiled the while: 
How poor was all my coffered gold 

To that dear word and smile ! 

I locked her lily hand in mine. 

And down the walk went w&; 
And that old palace garden 

Was paradise to me ! 



THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 

" Will you walk into my parlor ? " said a spider to a fly ; 
"'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy. 
The way into my parlor is up a winding scair. 
And I have many pretty things to show when you are there.' 
" Oh no, no ! " said the little fly, " to ask me is in vain, 
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down 
again." 

" I'm sure you must be weary, with soaring up so high; 
Will you rest upon my little bed ? " said the spider to the fly. 
" There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are 

fine and thin; 
And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in." 
" Oh no, no ! " said the little fly, " for I've often heard it said, 
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!" 



166 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Said the cunning spider to the fly, " Dear friend, what shall 

I do, 
To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you? 
I have, within my pantry, good store of all that's nice ; 
I'm sure you're very welcome — will you please to take a 

slice?" 
" Oh, no, no ! " said the little fly, " kind sir, that cannot be ; 
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see." 

" Sweet creature ! " said the spider, " you're witty and you're 

wise. 
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are 

your eyes! 
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf. 
If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold your 

self." 
" I thank you, gentle sir," she said, " for what you're pleased 

to say, 
And bidding you good morning, now, I'll call another day." 

The spider turned him round about, and went into his den, 

For well he knew the silly fly would soon be back again: 

So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner, sly. 

And set his table ready to dine upon the fly. 

Then he Avent out to his door again, and merrily did sing, 

" Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver 

wing; 
Your robes are green and purple — there's a crest upon your 

head ; 
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as 

lead." 

Alas, alas ! how very soon this silly little fly. 
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by; 
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer 
drew. 



MARY HOWITT. 167 

Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple 

hue; — 
Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish thing! — 

At last 
Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast. 

He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, 
Within his little parlor — but she ne'er came out again ! 
And now, dear little children, who may this story read, 
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed: 
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart, and ear, and eye. 
And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly. 



THE SNOW-DROP. 

The snow-drop I 'tis an English flower, 
And grows beneath our garden trees ! 
For every heart it has a dower 
Of old and dear remembrances. 
All look upon it, and straightway 
Recall their youth like yesterday; 
Their sunny years, when forth they went 
Wandering in weariless content; 
Their little plot of garden ground. 
The pleasant orchard's quiet bound; 
Their fathers' home, so free from care, 
And the familiar faces there. 

The household voices kind and sweet. 
That knew no feigning — hushed and gone ! 
The mother that was sure to greet 
Their coming with a welcome tone ; 



168 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

The brothers, that were children then. 
Now anxious, thoughtful, toiling men; 
And the kind sisters, whose glad mirth 
Was like a sunshine on the earth; — 
These come back to the heart supine, 
Flower of our youth ! at look of thine ; 
And thou, among the dimmed and gone, 
Art an unaltered thing alone ! 

Unchanged, unchanged — the very flower 
That grew in Eden droopingly, 
Which now beside the peasant's door 
Awakes his merry children's glee, 
Even as it filled his heart with joy 
Beside his mother's door — a boy ; 
The same, and to his heart it brings 
The freshness of those vanished springs. 
Bloom, then, fair flower ! in sun and shade, 
For deep thought in thy cup is laid. 
And careless children, in their glee, 
A sacred memory make of thee. 



THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN. 

Thoughts of Heaven! they come when low 
The summer-eve's breeze doth faintly blow: 
When the mighty sea shines clear, unstirred 
By the wavering tide, or the dipping bird: 
They come in the rush of the surging storm. 
When the blackening waves rear their giant form — 
When o'er the dark rocks curl the breakers white, 
And the terrible lightnings rend the night — 
When the noble ship hath vainly striven 
With the tempest's might, come thoughts of Heaven. 



MARY HOWITT. 169 

They come where man doth not intrude, 

In the untracked forest's solitude ; 

In the stillness of the grey rocks' height, 

Whence the lonely eagle takes his flight ; 

On peaks, where lie the eternal snows ; 

In the sun-bright isle, mid its rich repose ; 

In the heathy glen, by the dark, clear lake, 

Where the fair swan sails from her silent brake ; 

Where nature reigns in her deepest rest, 

Pure thoughts of heaven come unrepress'd. 

They come as we gaze on the midnight sky, 
When the star-gemmed vault looks dark and high, 
And the soul, on the wings of thought sublime. 
Soars from the dim world and the bounds of time. 
Till the mental eye becomes unsealed, 
And the mystery of being in light revealed: 
They rise in the gothic chapel dim, 
When slowly bursts forth the holy hymn, 
And the organ's rich tones swell full and high, 
Till the roof peals back the melody. 

Thoughts of heaven ! from his joy beguiled, 
They come to the bright-eyed, sinless child 
To the man of age, in his dim decay. 
Bringing hope his youth has not borne away ; 
To the woe-smit soul in its dark distress. 
As flowers spring up in the wilderness ; 
And in silent chambers of the dead. 
Where the mourner goes with soundless tread ; 
For as the day-beams freely fall. 
Pure thoughts of heaven are sent to all. 
16 



170 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



FROM "THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS." 

THE POOR SCHOLAR. 

Schol. Most precious words ! Now go your way, 

The summer fields are green and bright. 
Your tasks are done ; — Why do you stay ? 

Christ give his peace to you ! Good night ! 

Boy. You look so pale, sir ! You are worse. 
Let me remain and be your nurse ! 
Sir, when my mother has been ill, 
I've kept her chamber neat and still, 
And waited on her all the day ! 

Schol. Thank you; but yet you must not stay. 
Still, still, my boy, before we part 

Receive my blessing — 'tis my last! 
I feel death's hand is on my heart. 

And my life's sun is sinking fast: 
Yet, mark me, child, I have no fear, — 

'T is thu.5 the Christian meets his end : 
I know my work is finished here. 

Ami God — thy God too — is my friend ! 
Thy joyful course has just begun; 

Life is in thee a fountain strong; 
Yet, look upon a dying man. 

Receive his words and keep them long! 
Fear God, all wise, omnipotent. 

In him we live and have our being ; 
He hath all love, all blessing sent — 

Creator — Father — All-decreeing ! 
Fear him, and love, and praise, and trust ; 

Yet have of man no slavish fear; 
Remember kings, like thee, are dust. 

And at one judgment must appear. 



MARY HOWITT. 171 

But virtue, and its holy fruits, 

The poet's soul — the sage's sense, 
These are exalted attributes. 

And these deserve thy reverence. 
But, boy, remember this, e'en then, 
Revere the gifts, but not the men ! 
Obey thy parents — they are given 

To guide our inexperienced youth ; 
Types are they of the One in heaven, 

Chastising but in love and truth. 
Keep thyself pure. — Sin doth deface 

The beauty of our spiritual life. 
Do good to all men — live in peace 

And charity, abhorring strife. 
The mental power which God has given, 

As I have taught thee, cultivate ; 
Thou canst not be too wise for heaven. 

If thou dost humbly consecrate 
Thy soul to God. And ever take 

In his good book delight ; there lies 
The highest knowledge, which will make 

Thy soul unto salvation wise. 
My little boy, thou canst not know 

How strives my spirit fervently, 
How my heart's fountains overflow 

With yearning tenderness for thee ! 
God keep, and strengthen thee from sin — 

God crown thy life with peace and joy. 
And give at last to enter in 

The city of his rest, my boy. 

PRAYER OF THE SCHOLAR. 

Schol. Almighty God ! look down 
Upon thy feeble servant ! strengthen him! 
Give him the victor's crown — 



172 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

And let not faith be dim ! 

Oh ! how unworthy of thy grace, 

How poor, how needy, stained with sin I 

How can I enter in 
Thy kingdom, and behold thy face ! 
Except thou hadst redeemed me, I had gone 

Without sustaining knowledge, to the grave I 
For this I bless thee, oh thou gracious One ! 

And thou wilt surely save.— 
I bless thee for the life which thou hast crowned 

With never-ending good; 
For pleasures that were found. 

Like way-side flowers, in quiet solitude.^ — 
I bless thee for the love that watched o'er me 
Through the v/eak years of infancy, 
That has been, like thine everlasting truth. 
The guide, the guardian angel of my youth. 
Oh, thou ! that did'st the mother's heart bestow. 
Sustain it in its woe — 
For mourning give it joy, and praise for heaviness. 



THE PRODIGAL. 

Thomas. Ah, I remember well 
There is a little hollow hereabout. 
Where wild-brier roses, and lithe honeysuckle 
Made a thick bower : 'T was here I used to come 
To read sweet books of witching poetry ! 
Could it be I? No, no, I am so changed 
I will not think this man was once that boy : 
The thought would drive me mad. I will but think 
I once knew one who called this vale his own ; 
I will but think I knew a merry boy. 
And a kind gentle father, years agone, 
Who had their dwelling here ; and that the boy 



MARY HOWITT. 173 

Did love this lonely nook, and used to find 

Here the first nests of summer; here did read 

All witching books of glorious poetry ; 

And thus, that as the boy became a youth, 

And gentle feeling strengthen'd into passion, 

And love became the poetry of life, — 

Hither he wandered with a girlish beauty. 

Gathering, like Proserpine, sweet meadow flowers ; 

And that they set beneath the wild-brier rose. 

And that he thus did kiss that maiden's cheek. 

The first time as a lover I Oh my God ! 

That was the heir of Jones. A brave boy, 

A noble-hearted boy ! He grew a man, 

And what became of him ? Ha ! pass me that — 

Would that I kneio not what became of him ! 



SONG OF EDAH. 

Little waves upon the deep 
Murmur soft when thou dost sleep; 
Gentle birds upon the tree 
Sing their sweetest songs for thee 
Cooling gales, with voices low, 
In the tree-tops gently blow ! 
Dearest, who dost sleeping lie, 
All things love thee, — so do I ! 

When thou wak'st, the sea will pour 
Treasures for thee to the shore ; 
And the earth, in plant and tree, 
Bring forth fruit and flowers for thee ! 
And the glorious heaven above, 
Smile on thee, like trusting love. 
Dearest, who dost sleeping lie. 
All things love thee, — so do I ! 
15* 



174 THE LADIES' WREATH, 



SONG OF MARGARET. 

There is a land where beauty cannot fade, 

Nor sorrow dim the eye : 
Where true love shall not droop nor be dismay'd, 

And none shall ever die. 

Where is that land, oh where ? 

For I would hasten there — 

Tell me — I fain would go. 
For I am wearied with a heavy wo! 
The beautiful have left me all alone ! 
The true, the tender, from my paths are gone ! 

Oh guide me with thy hand, 

If thou dost know that land, 
For I am burdened with oppressive care, 
And I am weak and fearful with despair ! 

Where is it ? — tell me where — 
Thou that art kind and gentle — tell me where. 

Friend ! thou must trust in Him, who trod before 

The desolate paths of life ; 
Must bear in meekness, as he meekly bore, 

Sorrow, and pain, and strife ! 

Think how the Son of God 

Those thorny paths hath trod ; 

Think how he longed to go. 
Yet tarried out for thee the appointed wo ; 
Think of his weariness in places dim. 
Where no man comforted, nor cared for Him ! 

Think of the blood-like sweat 

With which his brow was wet ; 
Yet how he prayed, unaided and alone 
In that great agony — ' Thy will be done ! ' 

Friend I do not thou despair, 
Christ from his heaven of heavens will hear thy prayer ! 



MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 



We choose to retain the name by which this gifted wo- 
man was known as an authoress, although she had chang- 
ed it before her decease ; but we can never think of her as 
Mrs. Fletcher. Miss Jewsbury was born in Warwickshire. 
In early youth she lost her mother, and was thenceforth 
called to take her place at the head of a large family. Her 
father, soon after her mother's death, removed to Manches- 
ter, and here, in the midst of a busy population, oppressed 
with ilT health, and the grave cares of life, the promptings 
of genius still triumphed, and the young lady found time 
to dream dreams of literary distinction, which the energy 
of her mind, in a few years, converted into realities. 

It was at this period that she addressed a letter to Words- 
worth, full of the enthusiasm of an ardent imagination: 
this led to a correspondence with the bard of the Excursion, 
which soon ripened into permanent friendship. She was also 
materially assisted in the development of her talents, and 
the circulation of her first literary efforts, by the advice 
and active kindness of Mr. Alaric Watts, at that time a res- 
ident in Manchester: these obligations she always grate- 
fully acknowledged. 

Her first work was entitled " Phantasmagoria ; or, Es- 
says of Life and Literature," — which was well received 
by the public. This was soon followed by " Letters to the 
Young," written soon after a severe illness : then follow- 



176 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

ed "Lays for Leisure Hours." Her last work was her 
" Three Histories,"* which she allows display much of her 
own character and feelings. But her best writings are to 
be found in the periodicals and annuals, to which she was 
a large and most popular contributor. 

In 1833, she married Mr. Fletcher, a gentleman who held 
an office under the London East India Company — and soon 
after her marriage left England with her husband for Bom- 
bay. She anticipated, with eager pleasure, the riches of na- 
ture and antiquity, which the gorgeous East would open 
before her — but the buoyant and active spirit was soon to 
be called to another and higher existence. She died a short 
time after reaching India, and sleeps in that "clime of the 
sun," a fit resting-place for her warm and ardent heart. 

As the best illustration of her character and genius which 
we can give, we subjoin some extracts from a private letter, 
which she wrote to a friend a short time before she left 
England : — 

" The passion for literary distinction consumed me from 
nine years old. I had no advantages — great obstacles — 
and now, when from disgust I cannot write a line to please 
myself, I lookback with regret to the days when facility and 
audacity went hand in hand ; I wish in vain for the simplici- 
ty which neither dreaded criticism nor knew fear. Intense 
labor has, in some measure, supplied the deficiency of early 
idleness and common-place instruction ; intercourse with 
those who were once distant and bright as the stars, has 
become a thing of course ; I have not been unsuccessful in 
my own career. But the period of timidity and sadness is 
now come, and with my foot upon the threshold of a new 
life, and a new world — 

' I would lay down like a tired child, 
And weep away this life of wo.' 

♦ This interesting volume was republished in America, and was 
very popular. Her other works have not been reprinted here,— 
except the " Letters to the Young;" but could her "Miscellane- 
ous Writings " be collected, they would, no doubt, be highly appre 
ciated. 



MISS JEWSBURY. 177 

"Unfortunately, I was twenty-one before I became a 
reader, and I became a writer almost as soon : it is the ruin 
of all young talent of the day, that reading and writing are 
simultaneous. We do not educate ourselves for literary 
enterprise. I would gladly burn almost every thing I ever 
wrote, if so be I might start now with a mind that has seen, 
read, thought and suffered somewhat, at least, apjjroaching 
to a preparation. Alas, alas ! we all sacrifice the palm- 
tree to obtain the temporary draught of wine ! We slay 
the camel that would bear us through the desert, because 
we will not endure a momentary thirst. 

"/ have done nothing to live: — The powers which I 
feel, and of which I have given promise, may mature — may 
stamp themselves in act; but the spirit of despondency is 
strong upon the future exile, and I fear they never will. 
" I feel the long grass growing o'er my heart. 
" In the best of every thing I have done, you will find one 
leading idea — Death.. All thoughts, all images, all con-- 
trast of thoughts and images, are derived from living much 
in the valley of that shadow. My poetry, except some halt 
dozen pieces, may be consigned to oblivion ; but in all, you 
would find the sober hue, which, to my mind's eye, blends 
equally with the golden glow of sunset, and the bright green 
of spring ; and is seen equally in the ' temple of delight,' 
as in the tomb of decay and separation. I am melancholy 
by nature, but cheerful on principle." 

Such was the mind and heart of this noble woman. In 
conversation she was brilliant and eloquent; in the domes- 
tic circle she was a treasure, that Solomon would have 
placed above " rubies." Active, judicious, and kind, she 
showed the strength of her understanding, as well as the 
correctness of her principles, by discharging her household 
duties with the same promptness and cheerfulness with 
which she pursued her literary career. By her premature 
death, a bright ornament is gone from the female authors 
of the age. A fair lily has folded its rich blossoms in our 
Wreath. 



178 



THE LADIES' WREATH. 



TPIE LOST SPIRIT. 

' No man careth for my soul ." Psalm cxlii. 4. 

Weep, Sire, with shame and ruing, 
Weep for thy child's undoing ! 
For the days when I was young, 
And no prayer was taught my tongue; 
Nor the record from on hisrh. 
Of the life that cannot die: 
Wiles of the world, and men — 
Of their three-score years and ten; 
Earthly profit — human praise, 
Thou did'st set before my gaze, 
As the guiding stars of life, 
As the meed of toil and strife ; 
I run the world's race well, 
And find my guerdon — Hell ! 

Weep, Mother, weep — yet know 
'Twill not shorten endless wo. 
Nor thy prayer unbind my chain. 
Thy repentance soften pain. 
Nor the life-blood of thy frame. 
For one moment quench this flame ! 
Weep not beside my tomb. 
That is gentle, painless gloom; 
Let the worm and darkness prey 
On my senseless slumbering clay ; 
Weep for the priceless gem 
That may not hide with them; 
Weep the lost spirit's fate. 
Yet know thy tears too late: — 

Had they sooner fallen — well, 

/had not wept in Hell! 



MISS JEWSBURY. 179 

Physician, canst thou weep? 
Then let tears thy pillow steep: 
Couldst thou view time's wearing wave 
Doomed to whelm me in its grave j 
The last and lessening space, 
My life's brief hour of grace. 
Yet with gay unfaltering tongue. 
Promise health and sojourn long? 
On the brink of that profound 
Without measure, depth, or bound, 
View me busied with the toys 
Of a world of shadowy joys ? 
Oh, had look, or sigh, or breath. 
Then whispered aught of death; 
Though nature, in the strife. 
Had loosed her hold on life, 
And the worm received its prey, 
Perchance, an earlier day — 

This — this — and who can tell 

That I had dwelt in Hell! 

False Prophet, flattering Priest, 

Full fraught with mirth and feast! 

Thy weeping should not fail 

But with life's dark-ended tale ! 

For the living — for the dead — 

There is guilt upon thy head ! 

Thou did'st make the "narrow way," 

As the broad one, smooth and gay ; 

So speak in accents bland 

Of the bright and better land, 

That the soul unchanged within, 

The sinner in his sin, 

Of God and Christ unshriven, 

Lay down with dreams of heaven ! — 
False Priest, thy labors tell, 
I dreamed — and woke in Hell ! 



180 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



THE LAST SIGH OF THE MOOR. 

The Spaniards gave this name to the eminence from which , 
after their expulsion, the Moorish king and his followers took their 
farewell view of Grenada. 

Winding along at break of day 

And armed with helm and spears. 
Along the martyr's rocky way 

A king comes with his peers : 
Unto the eye a splendid sight 
Making the air all richly bright, 

Seen flashing through the trees, — 
But to the heart a scene of blight, 

Sadder than death are these. 

For. brightly fall the morning rays 

Upon a conquered king ; 
The breeze that with his banner plays 
I Plays with an abject thing: 

Banner and king no more will know 
Their rightful place midst friend and foe. 

Proud clarion cease thy blast ! 
Or, changing to the wail of wo. 
Breathe dirges for the past. 

Along, along, by rock and tower, 

That they have failed to keep. 
By wood and vale, their father's dower, 

The exiled warriors sweep : 
The chevroned steed no more elate. 
As if he knew his rider's fate. 

Steps languidly and slow, — 
As if he knew Grenada's gate 

Now open to the foe ! 



MISS JEWSBURY. 181 

Along, along, till all is past 

That once they called their own, 
Till bows the pride of strength at last, 

And knights like women moan ! 
Pausing upon the green hill side 
That soon their city towers will hide, 

They lean upon their spears — 
And hands that late with blood were dyed, 

Are now washed white with tears. 

Another look from brimming eyes 

Along the glorious plain. 
Elsewhere may spread as lovely skies. 

Elsewhere their monarch reign ; 
But never more in that bright land, 
With all his chivalry at hand. 

Now dead or far departed ! 
And from the hill side moves the band. 

The bravest, brokenhearted ! 



SYMBOLS. 

In youth the heart is like the bird, 
The humming-bird of eastern bowers, 

That ever, (take the traveller's word) 
Feeds, flying, on the dews of flowers. 

In manhood, 'tis the eagle bold, 

Borne upward to the cloud, the sky — 

That scorns the rock and mountain-hold, 
Except to build on, or to die. 

16 



1 



182 THE LADIES' WREATH, 

The sparkler of the woods is caught, 
The eagle's bosom pierced ere long: 

What symbol shall for age be sought? 
What bird its emblem be in song ? 

The mocking-bird its likeness be, 
That hath no music of its own j 

That sings with imitative glee — 
The bird of memory alone. 



THE WORLD'S MASaUE. 

" I AM not old — I am not old ! " — 
'Twas thus I heard one say, 

" And there's a spirit in my heart 
That keeps old age away ; 

'Tis Love — that like an angel guards 
Life's fountain from decay. 

I muse upon my fellow-men — 

To me they are a book. 
And oft my fancy rightly spells 

Their thoughts — by word and look ; 
Ay, many a proud and weary wight 

That searching ill would brook. 

For this, I seek the haunts of mirth. 
And those that mirth haunts least; 

None fear me — for they deem me one 
With whom life's love hath ceased : 

They slip their visors, and I see 
The spectre at the feast! 



MISS JEWSBURY. 183 

When others praise the lute and son^, 

The singer and his spell, 
I gaze upon each listener's face 

That can deep histories tell, 
Seeking the one, for whom, alas ! 

The singer sang so well. 

I follow, in the track of Fame, 
The path her crowned ones tread; 

Others behold theii glittering eyes, 
But I their brows instead — 

And the momentary look that asks 
For rest — if with the dead ! 

And when I see a placid face 

That speaks the heart asleep, 
While others on its beauty dwell, 

I — turn aside and weep ; 
For all that, ere a year be past, 

May there plough furrows deep. 

The man — the man of guile and care, 
Whose heart hath long been dry ; 

A fountain whence no waters flow, 
But weeds instead wave highj 

Others may hear his courtly wit, 
I — but his smothered sigh! 

Oh, fellow-men ! how often grief 

Is on me for your sakes ! 
And yet I would not love ye less-— 

For the sorrow that love wakes 
Makes my heart prayerful for ye all, 

And happy while it aches!" 



184 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



BIRTH-DAY BALLAD. 

Thou art plucking spring-roses, Genie^ 

And a little red rose art thou; 
Thou hast unfolded to day, Genie, 

Another bright leaf, I trow; 
But the roses will live and die, Genie, 

Many and many a time, 
Ere thou hast unfolded quite, Genie — 

Grown into maiden prime. 

Thou art looking now at tlie birds, Genie, 

But oh, do not wish their wing. 
That would only tempt the fowler, Genie, 

Stay thou on earth and sing ; 
Stay in the nursing-nest. Genie, 

Be not soon thence beguiled. 
Thou wilt ne'er find a second. Genie ; 

Never be twice a child. 

Thou art building towers of pebbles, Genie- 

Pile them up brave and high ; 
And leave them to follow a bee. Genie, 

As he wandereth singing by ; 
But if thy towers fall down, Genie, 

And if the brown bee is lost. 
Never weep — for thou must learn, Gennie, 

That soon life's schemes are crost. 

Thy hand is in a bright boy's. Genie, 
He calls thee his sweet wee wife ; 

But let not thy little heart think. Genie, 
Childhood the prophet of life : 



MISS JEWSBURY. 185 

It may be life's minstrel, Genie, 

And sing sweet songs and clear; 
But minstrel and prophet now, Genie, 

Are not united here. 

What will thy future fate be, Genie ? 

Alas ! shall I live to see ! 
For thou art scarce a sapling. Genie, 

And I am a moss-grown tree ! 
I am shedding life's leaves fast, Genie, 

Thou art in blossom sweet; 
But think betimes of the grave. Genie, 

Where young and old oft meet. 



SONG. 

She's on my heart, she's in my thoughts 
At midnight, morn and noon; 

December's snow beholds her there, 
And there the rose of June. 

I never breathe her lovely name 
When wine and mirth go round ; 

But oh, the gentle moonlight air 
Knows well the silver sound. 

I care not if a thousand hear 

When other maids I praise : 
I would not have my brother by, 

When I upon her gaze. 

The dews were from the lily gone, 

The gold has lost its shine. 
If any but my love herself 

Could hear me call her mine. 
16* 



MARY-ANN BROWNE.* 



This young poetess, daughter of the Vicar of Twicken- 
ham, and reared in that atmosphere of the muses where 
Pope lived and sung, gave early promise of genius. At the 
age of fifteen she published a volume — " Ada and other Po- 
ems," which was very kindly received by the literary pub- 
lic, and gained, for its juvenile writer, the friendship and 
correspondence of some of the "first and best" of Eng- 
land's gifted bards. Since that time (about seven years,) 
she has written, chiefly, for the periodicals and annuals. 
In the " Winter's Wreath " appeared " A World without 
Water"— a truly wonderful poem for a young lady to in- 
dite ; and though the critic, seeking for resemblances, may 
call it a suggestion from Byron's " Darkness," it is certainly 
equal to Campbell's ' Last Man," said, also, to be a re- 
flection from the same source of inspiration. 

* Many of the latest poems of Miss Browne, have appeared in 
the "Knickerbocker," published at New York, and these have made 
her name known, and her genius highly esteemed in this country. 
It has been thought here that she was a relative of Mrs. Hemans, 
as she bore the maiden surname of that lady — but we have learned 
that it is only in soul and genius that the relationship can be'traced 
— there is no family affinity. The sister of Mrs. Hemans, who 
composes music, is no poetess. 



MARY-ANN BROWNE. 187 

There is very little, if any display, of that sort of tender 
and flowery description, which may be termed sentimental- 
ism, in the poetry of Miss Browne. She is reflective, se- 
rious, and at times sublime. Human nature, as its pas- 
sions and changes, hopes and fears, and joys are displayed 
in books, and in social life, seems to have been her study, 
rather than "running brooks," or "flowery meads." Hence 
her style has been modelled more on the manner of the 
old bards, than is usual with those who write at so early an 
age. She condenses her thoughts, and this gives power 
and energy to her language. And the moral tone of her 
poetry is heavenward. We think she shows great promise 
of future excellence. It requires much observation and ex- 
perience to ripen such a mind as hers. Moral poetry, par- 
ticularly, when deduced from "this scene of man," must 
be imbued with much knowledge ; it must teach the reason 
as well as touch the heart of the reader. And, in some of 
her poems, Mary-Ann Browne shows this power. She has, 
likewise, a bold and ardent imagination, and delineates viv- 
idly the impressions which her fancy has suggested. But 
though her genius expanded early, and has grown like the 
Jasmine floAver, yet she must bear in mind that a woman 

" Who strives to soar 



On learning's wings, to Fame's bright sky. 
Far from the crowd must seek that lore, 

Unheeded live, sequestered die — 
And, like the Jasmine, when she's fled, 

Fame's rich perfume will ever keep 
Ling'ring around the faded dead. 

As saints that watch some infant's sleep." 



88 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



MAN'S LOVE. 

When woman's eye grows dull, 

And her cheek paleth, 
When fades the beautiful, 

Then man's love faileth : 
He sits not beside her chair. 

Clasps not her fingers, 
Twines not the damp hair, 

That o'er her brow lingers. 

He comes but a moment in, 

Though her eye lightens, 
Though her cheek, pale and thin. 

Feverishly brightens: 
He stays but a moment near, 

When that flash fadeth, 
Though true aflfection's tear 

Her soft eyelid shadeth. 

He goes from her chamber straight 

Into life's jostle. 
He meets at the very gate 

Business and bustle : 
He thinks not of her within. 

Slightly sighing. 
He forgets, in that noisy din, 

That she is dying! 

And when her young heart is still, 

What though he mourneth. 
Soon from his sorrow chill 
Wearied he turneth. 



MARY-ANN BROWNE. 189 

Soon o'er her buried head 

Memory's light setteth, 
And the true-hearted dead 

Thus man forgetteth ! 

WOMAN'S LOVE. 

When man is waxing frail 



3 

And his hand is thin and weak 



And his lips are parched and pale, 
And wan and white his cheek, — 
Oh, then doth woman prove 
Her constancy and love ! 

She sitteth by his chair, 
And holds his feeble hand; 

She watcheth ever there, 
His wants to understand; 

His yet unspoken will 

She hasteneth to fulfil. 

She leads him, when the noon 
Is bright o'er dale or hill. 

And all things, save the tune 
Of the honey bees, are still, 

Into the garden bowers, 

To sit 'midst herbs and flowers. 

And when he goes not there, 
To feast on breath and bloom, 

She brings the posy rare 
Into his darkened room; 

And 'neath his weary head 

The pillow smooth doth spread. 



190 THE LADIES' WREATH 

Until the hour when death 
His lamp of life doth dim, 

She never wearieth, 
She never leaveth him; 

Still near him night and day, 

She meets his eye alway. 

And when his trial's o'er, 
And the turf is on his breast, 

Deep in her bosom's core 
Lie sorrows unexprest; 

Her tears, her sighs, are weak, 

Her settled grief to speak. 

And though there may arise 
Balm for her spirit's pain. 

And though her quiet eyes 
May sometimes smile again; 

Still, still, she must regret, — 

She never can forget ! 



A WORLD WITHOUT WATER. 

Yesternight I prayed aloud, 

In anguish and in agony ; 
Upstarting from the fiendish crowd 

Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me. 

CoLERlDGEi 

I HAD a dream in the dead of night, 

A dream of agony ; 
I thought the world stood in affright, 
Beneath the hot and parching light 

Of an unclouded sky ; 



MARY-ANN BROWNE. 191 

I thought there had fallen no cooling rain 
For months upon the feverish plain, 
And that all the springs were dry : 

And I was standing on a hill, 

And looking all around: 
I know not how it was — but still 

Strength in my limbs was found, 
As if with a spell of threefold life, 

My destinies were bound. 

Beneath me was a far-spread heath, 

Where once had risen a spring, 
Looking as bright as a silver wreath 

In its graceful wandering : 
But now the sultry glance of the sun, 

And the glare of the dark blue sky. 
Had checked its course, — no more to run 

In light waves wandering by. 

And farther on was a stately wood. 

With its tall trees rising high : 
But now like autumn wrecks they stood 

Beneath a summer sky : 
And every leaf, though dead, did keep 

Its station in mockery ; 
For there was not one breath to sweep 

The leaves from each perishing tree ; 
And there they hung dead, motionless ; 

They hung there day by day. 
As though Death were too busy with other things 

To sweep their corpses away. 

Oh, terrible it was to think 
Of human creatures then I 



192 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

How they did seek in vain for drink 

In every vale and glen ; 
And how the scorched foot did shrink 

As it touched the slippery plain: 
And some had gathered beneath the trees 

In hope of finding shade ; 
But alas ! there was not a single breeze 

Astir in any glade ! 

The cities were forsaken, 

For their marble wells were spent ; 
And their walls gave back the scorching glare 

Of that hot firmament: 
But the corses of those who died were strewn 

In the street, as dead leaves lay. 
And dry they withered — and withered alone. 

They felt no foul decay ! 

Night came. The fiery sun sank down, 

And the people's hope grew strong : 
It was a night without a moon. 
It was a night in the depth of June, 

And there swept a wind along ; 
'Twas almost cool: and then they thought 
Some blessed dew it would have brought. 

Vain was the hope ! — there was no cloud 

In the clear dark blue Heaven ; 
But, bright and beautiful, the crowd 

Of stars looked through the even. 
And women sat them down to weep 

Over their hopeless pain ; 
And men had visions dark and deep, 

Clouding the dizzy brain; 
And children sobbed themselves to sleep. 

And never woke again ! 



MARY-ANN BROWNE. * 193 

The morning came— not as it comes 

Softly 'midst rose and dew- 
Not with those cool and fresh perfumes 

That the weariest heart renew; 
—But the Sun sprang up, as if eager to see 

What next his poAver could do ! 

A mother held her child to her breast, 

And kissed it tenderly, 
And then she saw her infant smile : 

What could that soft smile be ? 
A tear had sprung with a sudden start, 

To her hot feverish eye ; 
It had fallen upon that faint child's lip 

That was so parched and dry. 

I looked upon the mighty Sea; 

Oh, what a sight it was ! 
All its waves were gone, save two or three, 

That lay, like burning glass, 
Within the caves of those deep rocks 

Where no human foot could pass. 

And in the very midst, a ship 

Lay in the slime and sand; 
With all its sailors perishing, 

Even in sight of land ; 
Oh, water had been a welcome sight 

To that pale dying band! 

Oh, what a sight was the bed of the Sea ! 

The bed where he had slept, 
Or tossed and tumbled restlessly, 

And all his treasures kept 
For ages : he was gone ; and all 

His rocky pillows shown, 
17 



194 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

With their clustering shells, and sea-weed pall, 
And the rich gems round them thrown. 

And the monsters of the deep lay dead, 

With many a human form, 
That there had found a quiet bed, 

Away from the raging storm ; 
And the fishes, sodden in the sun, 

Were strewn by thousands round ; 
And a myriad things, long lost and won. 

Were there, unsought for, found. 

I turned away from earth and sea, 

And looked on the burning sky. 
But no drop fell, like an angel's tear — 

The founts of heaven were dry: 
The birds had perished every one ^ 

Not a cloud was in the air. 
And desolate seemed the very Sun, 

He looked so lonely there ! 

And I began to feel the pang — 

The agony of thirst; 
I had a scorching swelling pain. 

As if my heart would burst. 
My tongue seemed parched ; I tried to speak^ — 

The spell that instant broke ; 
And, starting at my own wild shriek. 

In mercy I awoke. 



MARY-ANN BROWNE. 195 



THE CLOUDS. 

" Clouds now softly sailing 

Along the deep blue sky, now fixed and still." 

Miss Mitford. 

The clouds ! the clouds! they are beautiful. 

When they sleep on the soft blue sky, 
As if the sun to rest could lull 

Their snowy company ; 
And as the wind springs up, they start, 

And career o'er the azure plain ; 
And before the course of the breezes dart, 

To scatter their balmy rain. 

The clouds ! the clouds ! how change their forms 

With every passing breath ; 
And now a glancing sunbeam warms, 

And now they look cold as death !' 
Oh often and often have I escaped 

From the stir of the noisy crowd. 
And a thousand fanciful visions shaped 

On the face of a passing cloud. 

The clouds ! the clouds ! round tht sun at night 

They come like a band of slaves. 
That are only bright in the master's light, 

And each in his glory laves. 
Oh, they are lovely, lovely then, 

When the heaven around them glows — 
Now touched with a purple and amber stain, 

And now with the hue of the rose. 



196 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

The clouds ! the clouds 1 in the starlit sky, 

How they float on the light wind's wings : 
Now resting an instant, then glancing by, 

In their fickle wanderings ! 
Now they hide the deep blue firmament — 

Now it shows their folds between, 
As if a silver vein were rent 

From the jewelled brow of a queen. 

The clouds! the clouds! they are the lid 

To the lightning's flashing eye j 
And in their fleecy fold is hid 

The thunder's majesty ! 
Oh, how their warning is proclaimed 

By the shrill blast's battle song ; 
And the tempest's deadliest shafts are aimed 

From the midst of the dark clouds' throng. 

The clouds ! the clouds ! my childish days 

Are past — my heart is old; 
But here and there a feeling stays, 

That never can grow cold : 
And the love of nature is one of these. 

That time's wave never shrouds : 
And oft and oft doth my soul find peace 

In watching the passing clouds. 



MARY-ANN BROWNE. 197 



THE HEART AND LYRE. 

She left her lyre within the hall, 

When last she parted with her loved ; 
And still it hangs upon the wall — 

He will not let it be removed. 
Around that lyre of sweetest tone 

She twined a wreath of roses fair ; 
And, though their lovely hue is gone, 

The withered blossoms still are there. 

No hand hath touched its silver string 
Since last she waked a parting lay : 

To sweep its chords would only bring 
A tuneless tale of its decay. 

And there it hangs, slow mouldering. 
Its sweetness gone, its passion quell'd ; 

And round it those dead roses cling. 
Like withered hopes still fondly held. 

And his sad mourning heart is such — 

No happy feeling it affords ; 
It cannot bear the lightest touch 

Of mirth upon its ruined chords. 
Her name to him they ne'er repeat. 

It would but waken thoughts of wo ; 
And though 'twas once so very sweet, 

He could not brook to hear it now. 

He fixes on that lyre his eye 
For hours, but never, never speaks ; 

Unmoved he gazes, silently. 

And only starts when some chord breaks. 
17* 



198 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

It hath an echo in his heart. 

Both mutely their bereavement bear: 

In her affections both had part, 
And both are left to perish there. 



THE DEPARTED. 

They are not there ! where once their feet 
Light answer to sweet music beat — 
Where their young voices sweetly breathed, 
And fragrant flowers they lightly wreathed. 
Still flows the nightingale's sweet song — 
Still trail the vine's green shoots along — 
Still are the sunny blossoms fair ; 
But they who loved them are not there ! 

They are not there ! by the lone fount 
That once they loved at eve to haunt; 
Where, when the day-star brightly set. 
Beside the silver wave they met : 
Still lightly glides the quiet stream — 
Still o'er it falls the soft moon beam ; 
But they who used its beams to share 
With fond hearts by it, are not there ! 

They are not there ! by the dear hearth 
That once beheld their harmless mirth; 
When through their joy came no vain fear, 
And o'er their smiles no darkening tear: 
Its burns not now a beacon-star ; 
'Tis cold and fireless as they are: 
Where is the glow it used to wear? 
'Tis felt no more — they are not there ! 



MARY-ANN BROWNE. 199 



MEMORY. 

" Rather than have one bliss forgot, 
Be all my pains remembered too." 



Moore. 



And wouldst thou advise me to mix with the crowdj 

And strive to efface the remembrance of years; 
When, though mists and misfortune too often might shroud. 

One smile hath repaid me for long hours of tears? 
And sayst thou that memory only can feed 

The fever that preys on the desolate heart? 
Oh ! thou knowest not, unless thou hast felt it indeed. 

What joy the remembrance of joy can impart! 

There are things that are past, which I would not forget 

For the brightest of pleasures that earth can now give; 
Their bliss had a mixture of sorrow, and yet 

Like stars in the night of my bosom they live. 
As on scenes we have passed, when by distance made soft, 

We gaze the more fondly the further we go, 
So, when years of our prime have gone over, how oft 

We turn with delight to past pleasure and wo. 

I once felt affections, more gentle and fond, 

That shone o'er my soul, like the stars o'er the seas; 
And think'st thou my spirit can ever despond. 

While memory revives such emotions as these? 
Oh 1 how many a smile and affectionate word 

Remain through long years on the wo-blighted mind. 
When joy hath shot over its wastes, like a bird 

That hath left a bright gift from its plumage behind! 



200 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

And what though the vision of happiness flies 

From the heart that had cherished it fondly before ? 
Its flowers may be withered, but memory supplies 

Their vigor, and fragrance, and beauty once more. 
Oh ! may my remembrances never depart ! 

May I still feel a bliss in beholding the past — 
While memory over the gems of the heart 

Shall, sentinel-like, keep her watch to the last. 



KINDRED SPIRITS. 

Drops from the ocean of Eternity, 

Rays from the centre of unfailing light, 
Things that the human eye can never see, 

Are spirits, — yet they dwell near human sight! 
But as the shattered magnet's fragment still, 

Though far apart, will to each other turn, — 
So, in the breast imprisoned, spirits will 

To meet their fellow spirits vainly burn ; — 
And yet not vainly. If the drop shall pass 

Through streams of human sorrow undefiled, — 
If the eternal ray that heavenly was. 

To no false earthly fire be reconciled, — 
The drop shall mingle with its native main. 
The ray shall meet its kindred ray again ! 



CAROLINE BOWLES 



"All high poetry must be religious," says Professor 
Wilson. — And who that is conscious of possessing a soul 
which longs for immortality, but feels the truth of this doc- 
trine ? There is an aspiration in every mind for something 
higher, better, lovelier than can be found on earth ; and it 
is the holiest office of poesy to embody in language these 
vague yearnings for happiness and purity, and paint, on the 
dark and torn canvass of human life, transparent and glow- 
ing pictures of heavenly beauty and tranquillity. Few 
writers have done this with more effect than Miss Bowles. 
There is a sincerity, a devotedness, ay, and an enjoyment 
too, in her religious musings, which shows that Christian 
feeling has elevated the poetic sentiment in her heart till 
she can sing of the "better land " with the sure and sweet 
conviction of its reality and blessedness. — Would that we 
had room for a larger number of extracts from this poetess, 
as her effusions are not as well known in our country as 
they deserve to be. Her volume entitled " Solitary Hours" 
has never been reprinted here. And it is only through the 
Annals and Periodicals that, occasionally, a strain of hers 
is wafted across the Atlantic. But every true sister of the 
lyre feels a companionship with Caroline Bowles. And 
she is a model to which we delight to direct the attention 



202 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

of our young ladies. As the Myrtle is all beautiful, leaf, 
flower and tree, so is her poetry all worthy of our admira- 
tion and esteem. 

In private life Miss Bowles is the Christian lady, doing 
good and communicating happiness in her domestic pur- 
suits as well as by her literary talent. She is sister of the 
Rev. William Lisle Bowles, and in genius, as well as in 
its direction to subjects of devout and benevolent charac- 
ter, their tastes and minds harmonize, like the music from 
instruments tuned by the same hand. 



THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. 

There is a tongue in every leaf — 

A voice in every rill; 
A voice that speaketh every where — 
In flood and fire, through earth and air «— 

A tongue that's never still. 

' Tis the Great Spirit wide diff'used 

Through everything we see, 
That with our spirits communeth. 
Of things mysterious — Life and Death, 

Time and Eternity. 

I see Him in the blazing sun, 

And in the thunder-cloud ; 
I hear him in the mighty roar 
That rusheth through the forests hoar, 

When winds are piping loud. 

I see Him, hear Him everywhere^ — 
In all things — darkness, light, 



CAROLINE BOWLES. 203 

Silence and sound — but most of all, 
When slumber's dusky curtains fall, 
At the dead hour of night. 

\feel Him in the silent dews, 

By grateful earth betrayed; 
I feel him in the gentle showers, 
The soft south wind, the breath of flowers, 

The sunshine and the shade. 

And yet (ungrateful that I am !) 

I've turned, in sullen mood. 
From all these things, whereof He said, 
When the great whole was finished, 

That they were "very good." 

My sadness on the loveliest things 

Fell like ungrateful dew ; 
The darkness that encompassed me, 
The gloom I felt so palpably. 

My own dark spirit threw. 

Yet He was patient — slow to wrath, 

Though every day provoked 
By selfish, pining, discontent. 
Acceptance cold or negligent. 

And promises revoked ; 

And still the same rich feast was spread 

For my insensate heart! 
Not always so — I woke again, 
Tojoin Creation's rapturous strain, 

" Oh Lord, how goo^. thou art ! " 

The cloudsdrewup — the shadows fled; 

The glorious sun broke out ; 
And love, and hope, and gratitude 
Dispelled that miserable mood 

Of darkness and of doubt. 



204 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



ABJURATION. 

There was a time ^-^ sweet time of youthful folly ! — 
Fantastic woes I courted — feigned distress; 

Wooing the veiled phantom, Melancholy, 
With passion born, like Love, in idleness. 

And like a lover — like a jealous lover — 

I hid mine idol with a miser's art, 
(Lest vulgar eyes her sweetness should discover,) 

Close in the inmost chambers of mine heart. 

And there I sought her — oft in secret sought her, 
From merry mates withdrawn, and mirthful play - 

To wear away, by some deep, stilly water. 
In greenwood lone, the live-long summer day ; 

Watching the flitting clouds, the fading flowers. 
The flying rack athwart the wavy grass; 

And murmuring oft — "Alack ! this life of ours — 
Such are its joys — so swiftly doth it pass!" 

And then, mine idle tears (ah, silly maiden !) 
Bedropped the liquid glass like summer rain ; 

And sighs, as from a bosom sorrow-laden, 
Heaved the light heart, that knew no real pain. 

And then, I loved to haunt lone burial-places, 

Pacing the churchyard earth with noiseless tread; 

To pore in new-made graves, for ghastly traces, 
Brown, crumbling bones of the forgotten dead; 



CAROLINE BOWLES. 205 

To think of passing bells, of death and dying, — 
Methought 't were sweet in early youth to die, 

So loved, lamented, in suoh sweet sleep lying, 
The white shroud all with flowers and rosemary 

Strewed o'er by loving hands !— but then 't would grieve me 
Too sore, forsooth! the scene my fancy drew; 

I could not bear the thought to die and leave ye, — 
And I have lived, dear friends I to weep for you. 

And I have lived to prove that fading flowers 
Are life's best joys, and all we love and prize: 

What chilling rains succeed the summer showers ! 
What bitter drops, wrung slow from elder eyes ! 

And I have lived to look on death and dying, — 

To count the sinking pulse — the shortening breath ; 

To watch the last faint life-streak flying, — flying, — 
To stoop — to start — to be alone with — Death. 

And I have lived to wear the smile of gladness. 
When all within was cheerless, dark and cold ; 

When all earth's joys seemed mockery and madness. 
And life more tedious than " a tale twice told." 

And now — and now, pale, pining Melancholy ! 

No longer veiled for me your haggard brow 
In pensive sweetness — such as youthful folly 

Fondly conceited — I abjure ye now. 

Away ! avaunt ! No longer now I call ye 
" Divinest Melancholy ! mild, meek maid ! " 

No longer may your siren spells enthrall me, 
A willing captive in your baleful shade. 

Give me the voice of mirth — the sound of laughter — 
The sparkling glance of Pleasure's roving eye. 
18 



206 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

The past is past : avaunt, thou dark hereafter ! 
"Come, eat and drink — tomorrow we must die !" 

So, in his desperate mood, the fool hath spoken — 
The fool whose heart hath said, " There is no God." 

But for the stricken heart, the spirit broken. 
There 's balm in Gilead yet. The very rod, 

If we but kiss it as the stroke descendeth, 
Distilleth balm to allay the inflicted smart ; 

And "peace that passeth understanding" blendeth 
With the deep sighing of the contrite heart. 

Mine be that holy, humble tribulation, — 

No longer feigned distress — fantastic woe; — 

I know my griefs, — but then my consolation, 
My trust, and my immortal hopes I know. 



AURA VENI. 

Balmy freshness ! heavenly air ! 

Cool, oh ! cool this burning brow ; 
Loose the fiery circlet there: — 

Blessed thing! I feel ye now. 

Blessed thing! depart not yet; 

Let me, let me quaff my fill : 
Leave me not my soul to fret 

With longing for what mocks me still. 

Oh, the weary, weary nights 
I 've lain awake and thought of thee ! 

Of clouds and corn — and all sweet sights 
Of shade and sunshine, flower and tree ; 



CAROLINE BOWLES. 207 

Of running waters, rippling clear; 

Of merry birds, and gipsy camp : 
Then how I loathed to see and hear 

That ticking watch — that sickly lamp, — 

And longed at least for light again — 

For day, that brought no change to me ; — 

The weight was on my heart and brain : 
God might remove it — only He. 

But now and then, the fount of tears, 

So seeming dry, was free to flow ; 
'T was worth the happiness of years, 

That short-lived luxury of wo ! 

And in the midst of all my pain, 

I knew I was not quite forgot ; 
I knew my cry was not in vain, — 

So I was sad, but fainted not. 

And now His merciful command 

Hath lightened what was worst to bear — 

And given of better days at hand 
A foretaste in this blessed air. 



THE WOODBINE. 

T'other evening I strolled down the shady, green lane, 

All with eglantine arched overhead. 
Where the hare comes her sweet, dewy supper to pick. 
And the banks are with wild-flowers jewelled so thick. 

And the turf is so soft to the tread. 



208 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

The woodman's old horse, when his harness is off, 

Comes thither, with hunger sore pressed ; 
But so weary, he scarce crops a mouthful or so — 
He heaves a deep sigh, with his head hanging low, 
And sinks down supinely to rest. 

And there, t'other evening, stretched out in my path. 

All across it — poor creature !-T-he lay. 
"Never mind, honest Jack, take your comfort," I said; 
"You've worked very hard for your old master's bread. 

All the hours I've idled away." 

" And you 're idling them still, with such babyish stuff," 

May Sir Oracle gravely opine. 
"No matter, Old Wisdom, you need not attend ; 
And you've said the same thing (now I think of it, friend) 

Of lays better warbled than mine. 

"So I'll sing as I please — and you'll listen or not, 

As it likes you, — no matter to me ; 
I sing, like that little brown bird in the brake, 
Beca,use nature invites me such joyance to make, 

In her haunts to all commoners free." 

So away to my lane — for I have not yet done 

With my tale of that wonderful place ; 
How the woodman's old horse, though he patiently heard 
My affecting address, never answered a word, 

Though he looked very hard in my face : 

How the hare started up from a mole-hill of thyme, 

And a partridge chirred out at my feet ; 
How the blackbird was singing his vesper so clear. 
And a nightingale joined from a hazel-copse near. 

And the woodbines were temptingly sweet. 

And I'll have them, said I — what a nosegay they '11 make ! 
How they '11 perfume my own bonny bower ! 



CAROLINE BOWLES. 209 

And with that, up the bank in a moment was I, 
And the beautiful prize, though suspended so high, 
Was already almost in my power. 

Almost — but we know an old proverb that tells 
What may hap 'twixt the cup and the lip ; 
So I scrambled, and reached, and just touched it at last, — 
Yet another bold spring, and I'll have them full fast ; — 
Good lack I what a terrible slip! 

^Twas a terrible slip; — down through bramble and bush 

To the ground in a twinkling I came ; 
And my hands were all scratched, and my gown was all 

torn. 
Had you seen it, ma bonne ! you'd have said, I'll be sworn, 

As you used in old lime, " What a shame !" 

And then, to be sure, I looked silly enough, 

And ashamed of my plight, as I lay ; 
While the woodbine above, in its beautiful pride, 
Just flaunted more freely, my fall to deride ; 

And methought the vain creature should say — 

" Ah ! ha ! — keep your distance, poor dweller of earth ! 

You may find in your own proper place. 
On your own lowly level, contentment enow ; 
Who reaches beyond it will gather, I trow, 

Small guerdon but shame and disgrace." 



18* 



210 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



LINES SUGGESTED BY SOME LATE AUTUMN 
FLOWERS. 

Those few pale autumn flowers, 

How beautiful they are ! 
Than all that went before, 
Than all the summer store, 

HoAV lovelier far ! 

And why ? — They are the last ! — 

The last! — the last! — the last! 
Oh ! by that little word. 
How many thoughts are stirred — 

That sister of the past! 

Pale flowers ! — pale, perishing flowers ! 

Ye 're types of precious things — 
Types of those bitter moments. 
That flit, like life's enjoyments, 

On rapid, rapid wings ; 

Last hours with parting dear ones, 
(That time the fastest spends) — 

Last tears in silence shed — 

Last words half uttered — 
Last looks of dying friends. 

Who would but fain compress 

A life into a day — 
The last day spent with one 
Who, e'er the morrow's sun, 

Must leave us, and for aye ! 



CAROLINE BOWLES. 211 

Oh, precious, precious moments ! 

Pale flowers ! ye 're types of those ; 
The saddest ! sweetest! dearest! 
Because, like those, the nearest 

To an eternal close. 

Pale fliowers ! — pale, perishing flowers ! 

I woo your gentle breath ; 
I leave the summer rose 
For younger, blither brows : — 

Tell me of change and death, 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

How happily, how happily, the flowers die away ; 
Oh, could we but return to earth as easily as they ! 
Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence and bloom. 
Then drop, without decreptitude or pain, into the tomb. 

The gay and glorious creatures ! they neither "toil nor spin ;" 
Yet lo I what goodly raiment they 're all apparelled in ; 
No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems more bright 
Than ever brow of eastern queen, endiademed with light. 

The young rejoicing creatures ! their pleasures never pall; 
Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to all ! 
The dew, the shower, the sunshine, the balmy blessed air. 
Spend nothing of their freshness, tho' all may freely share. 

The happy careless creatures ! of time they take no heed; 
Nor weary of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed ; 
Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light away ; 
Nor when 'tis gone cry dolefully, " would God that it were 
day ! " 



212 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

And when their lives are over, they drop away to rest, 
Unconscious of the penal doom, on holy Nature's breast: 
No pain have they in dying, no shrinking from decay ; 
Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they ! 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, whenHope has built a bower. 
Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless 

flower, 
To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust, 
A whirlwind from the desert comes — and " all is in the 

dust ! " 

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, that when the poor heart 

clings 
With all its finest tendrils — with all its flexile rings, — 
That goodly thing it cleaveth too, so fondly and so fast. 
Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast. 

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss — 
With looks too bright and beautiful for such a Avorld as this ; 
One moment round about us, their "Angel lightnings"* play, 
Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all hath past 
away. 

'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly 

fair — 
Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt, more earthly natures 

bear : — 
A little while they dwell with us — blest ministers of love, 
Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their 

home above. 

* II lampeggiar del angelico rico. 



MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 



Miss Mitford has written pleasant poems and success- 
ful tragedies, and yet we did hesitate about introducing her 
name in our Wreath. Not that we love her poetry less than 
that of others, but her prose more. And then we felt that 
we could not do her justice. Rienzi is a splendid produc- 
tion, but it requires to be seen on the stage, in action, to 
understand its superior excelletices — such extracts as our 
limits allow Avill only mar its beauties. Her poems, too, 
have chiefly been written for the annuals, as illustrations of 
engravings, and, detached from these historical scenes, lose 
half their interest. 

But what matters it? Who does not know and love the 
author of " Our Village ? " — whose charming descriptions 
have made the rural life of the English villager as familiar 
to Americans as though we were "neighbors over the way ! " 
In these descriptions Mary Mitford is unrivalled. She has 
a manner, natural to her, no doubt, but inimitable and in- 
describable, which sheds interest around the most homely 
subjects and coarsest characters. Who ever threw by a 
sketch of hers half read ? No one who admired a spring 
daisy — or that most fragrant blossom, the wall-flower, 
which beautifies every object, however rough, rude or ruin- 
ous, around which it wreathes. And, though she does not 
trace the motives of conduct very deeply, or attempt to 



214 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

teach principles of moral duty, yet there is much in her 
sprightly and Avarni sketches of simple nature which draws 
the heart to love the Author of all this beauty; and much 
in her kind and contented philosophy to promote love and 
good feelings. She is a philanthropist, for she joys in the 
happiness of others — a patriot, for she draws the people to 
feel the beauties and blessings which surround the most 
lowly lot in that " land of proud names and high heroic 
deeds." 

Well, we must go back to her poesy : that is our present 
subject. " Rienzi " has placed Miss Mitford in a high rank 
as a dramatic poetess. It has many powerful passages, and 
shows a bold fancy, and refined and ingenious taste in its 
construction and management. There is, also, that gentle- 
ness and simplicity in the character of Claudia, and those 
home descriptions and feelings which reveal the intelligent 
observer of nature and of the heart. As a historic legend 
it is sustained with great talent; but this kind of invention, 
which gathers and combines the pomp of fictitious circum- 
stance around real events and acUial personages, we do 
not consider the loftiest attribute of genius. Minds of the 
highest order have a creative power, so to speak, compounded 
of imagination and reason, which can form its legend from 
the world within the soul. The " Count Basil," of Joanna 
Baillie, compared with " Rienzi," will illustrate our mean- 
ing. The genius of Mary Mitford is like the fairy skill, 
which can transmute "chucky stones" into diamonds: 
there is a genius which does not need the aid of stones, but 
can think diamonds. 

But if we do not place Mary Mitford among the very 
highest talent, we consider her one of the brightest living 
ornaments of female literature. Her descriptions of rural 
and domestic life are patterns of sentiment and style, which 
we commend, not for imitation, as that is never well, but 
for study and admiration to our young ladies. And then 
her own example is a pattern. She is no longer a very 



MISS MITFORD. 215 

young lady, but retains the cheerfulness and dispenses 
around her the happiness of youth. She resides with her 

father, who is vicar of Reading, in shire, and 

manages the domestic duties of lady of the parsonage with 
the same ease and grace with which she pursues her distin- 
guished literary career. 



SELECTIONS FROM "RIENZI. " 

HOME AND LOVE. 

Rie. Claudia — nay, start not! Thou art sad to-day 
I found thee sitting idly, 'midst thy maids — 
A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied 
Q,uick tongue and nimble finger. Mute, and pale 
As marble, those unseeing eyes were fixed 
On vacant air ; and that fair brow was bent 
As sternly, as if the rude stranger, Thought, 
Age-giving, mirth-destroying, pitiless Thought, 
Had knock ,'d at thy young giddy brain. 

Cla. Nay, father. 
Mock not thine own poor Claudia. 

Rie. Claudia used 
To bear a merry heart with that clear voice, 
Prattling; and that light busy foot, astir 
In her small housewifery, the blithest bee 
That ever wrought in hive. 

Cla. Oh ! mine old home ! 

/?ie.What ails thee, lady-bird? 

Cla. Mine own dear home ! 
Father, I love not this new state ; these halls, 
Where comfort dies in vastness ; these trim maids. 
Whose service wearies me. Oh ! mine old home ! 
My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle, 



216 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Woven round the casement; and the cedar by, 
Shading the sun ; my garden overgrown 
With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields ; 
My pretty snow-white doves ; my kindest nurse ; 
And old Camillo. — Oh ! mine own dear home ! 

Bie. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old fond nurse, 
And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves. 
Thy myrtles, flowers^ and cedars ; a whole province 
Laid in a garden an' thou wilt. My Claudia, 
Hast thou not learnt thy power ? Ask orient gems, 
Diamonds, and sapphires, in rich caskets, wrought 
By cunning goldsmiths ; sigh for rarest birds. 
Of farthest Ind. like winged flowers to flit 
Around thy stately bower ; and, at thy wish. 
The precious toys si all wait thee. Old Camillo ! 
Thou shalt have nobler servants, — emperors, kings, 
Electors, princes ! Not a bachelor 
In Christendom but would right proudly kneel 
To my fair daughter. 

Cla. Oh ! mine own dear home ! 

Rie. Wilt have a list to choose from? Listen, sweet! 
If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle. 
And the white-doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them 
Whose was the shadow on the sunny wall ? 
And if, at eventide they heard not oft 
A tuneful mandoline, and then a voice. 
Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song 
O'erwhelmed the quivering instrument; and then 
A world of whispers, mixed with low response. 
Sweet, short, and broken as divided strains 
Of nightingales. 

Cla. Oh, father ! father ! [runs to him, and falls upon 
his neck.'] 

Rie. Well ! 
Dost love him, Claudia? 

Cla. Father! 



MISS MITFORD. 217 

Rie. Dost thou love 
Young Angelo? Yes? Saidst thou yes ? That heart — 
That throbbing heart of thine, keeps such a coil, 
I cannot hear thy words. He is returned 
To Rome ; he left thee on mine errand, dear one ; 
And now— is there no casement myrtle-wreathed, 
No cedar in our courts, to shade to-night 
The lover's song? 

Cla. Oh, father ! father ! 

Rie. Now, 
Back to thy maidens, with a lightened heart, 
Mine own beloved child. Thou shalt be first 
In Rome, as thou art fairest; never princess 
Brought to the proud Colonna such a dower 
As thou. Young Angelo hath chosen his mate 
From out an eagle's nest. 

Cla. Alas ! alas ! 
I tremble at the height. Whene'er I think 
Of the hot barons, of the fickle people, 
And the inconstancy of power, I tremble 
For thee, dear father. 

Rie. Tremble ! let them tremble. 
I am their master, Claudia, whom they scorned. 
Endured, protected. — Sweet, go dream of love 1 
I am their master, Claudia. 

CLAUDIA PLEADING FOR HER HUSBAND. 

Cla. [ Without.'] Father ! father ! 
Rie. Guard the door ! 
Be sure ye give not way. 
Cla. {without.'] Father ! 
Rie. To see 
Her looks I her tears ! 

Enter Claudia hastily. 
Cla. Who dares to stop me ? Father ! 

{Rushes into the arms oj Rienzi. 
19 



218 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Rie. I bade ye guard the entrance. 
Cla. Against me ! 
Ye must have men and gates of steel, to bar 
Claudia from her dear father. Where is he? 
They said he was with you — he — thouknow'st 
Whom I would say. I heard ye loud. I thought 
I heard ye ; but perchance, the dizzying throb 
Of my poor temples — Where is he ? I see 
No corse — an' he were dead — Oh, no, no, no! 
Thoucould'st not, would'st not ! say he lives. 

Rie. As yet 
He lives. 

Cla. Oh ! blessings on thy heart, dear father ! 
Blessings on thy kind heart ! When shall I see him ? 
Is he in prison ? Fear hath made me weak. 
And wordless as a child. Oh! send for him. — 
Thou hast pardoned him; — didst thou not say but now 
Thou hadst pardoned him 1 
Rie. No. 

Cla. Oh, thou hast ! thou hast I 
This is the dalliance thou wast wont to hold 
When I have craved some girlish boon, — a bird, 
A flower, a moonlight walk ; but now I ask thee 
Life, more than life. Thou hast pardoned himT 
Rie. My Claudia ! 

Cla. Ay ! I am thine own Claudia, whose first word 
Was father ! These are the same hands that clung 
Around thy knees, a totterring babe ; the lips 
That, ere they had learnt speech, would smile, and seek 
To meet thee with an infant's kiss ; these eyes 
Thou hast called so like my mother's, eyes that never 
Looked on thee, but with looks of love. — Oh, pardon ! 
Nay, father, speak not yet ; thy brows are knit 
Into a sternness. Pr'ythee speak not yet ! 
Rie. This traitor — 

Cla. Call him as thou wilt, but pardon ! 
Oh, pardon ! ^Kneels. 



MISS MITPORD. 219 

Rie, He defies me. 

Cla. See, I kneel. 
And he shall kneel, shall kiss thy feet ; wilt pardon ? 

Rie. Mine own dear Claudia. 

Cla. Pardon I 

Rie. Raise thee up ; 
Rest on my bosom ; let thy beating heart 
Lie upon mine ; so shall the mutual pang 
Be stilled. Oh I that thy father's soul could bear 
This grief for thee, my sweet one 1 Oh, forgive — 

Cla. Forgive thee Avhat ? "Tis so the headsman speaks 
To his poor victim, ere he strikes. Do fathers 
Make widows of their children ? send them down 
To the cold grave heart-broken ? Tell me not 
Of fathers — I have none ! All else that breathes 
Hath known that natural love ; the wolf is kind 
To her vile cubs ; the little wren hath care 
For each small young one of her brood ; and thou- - 
The word that widowed, orphaned me ? Henceforth 
My home shall be his grave j and yet thou canst not — 
Father I [^Rushhig into Rienzi's arms.^ 

Rie. Ay ! Dost call me father once again, my Claudia, 
Mine own sweet child ! 

Cla. Oh, father, pardon him ! 
Oh pardon, pardon! 'T is my life I ask 
In his. Our lives, dear father ! 

Rie. Ho, Camillo ! 
Where loiters he ? [Enter Camillo. 

Camillo, take my ring ; 
Fly to the captain of the guard, Alberti ; 
Bid him release Lord Angelo. 

Cla. Now bless thee, — 
Bless thee, my father ! 

Rie. Fly, Camillo, fly I 
Why loiterest thou ? 

Cam. The ring. 

IRienzi gives the ring to Camillo — Exit Camillo. 



220 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



INFLEXIBLE JUSTICE. 

Rie. This is justice, 
Pure justice, not revenge ! — Mark well, my lords — 
Pure, equal justice. Martin Ursini 
Had open trial, is guilty, is condemned. 
And he shall die ! 

Col. Yet listen to us — 

Rie. Lords, 
If ye could range before me all the peers, 
Prelates and potentates of Christendom,- — 
The holy pontiff kneeling at my knee. 
And emperors crouching at my feet, to sue 
For this great robber, still I should be blind 
As Justice.. But this very day a wife, 
One infant hanging at her breast, and two. 
Scarce bigger, first-born twins of misery, 
Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid 
Her squalid form, grasped at my bridal rein 
To beg her husband's life ; condemned to die 
For some vile petty theft, some paltry scudi: 
And, whilst the fiery war-horse chafed and reared, 
Shaking his crest, and plunging to get free. 
There, midst the dangerous coil, unmoved she stood, 
Pleading in piercing words, the very cry 
Of nature ! And, when I at last said no — 
For I said no to her — she flung herself 
And those poor innocent babes between the stones 
And my hot Arab's hoofs. We saved them all. 
Thank Heaven, we saved them all ! but I said no 
To that sad woman midst her shrieks. Ye dare not 
Ask for mercy now. 



MISS MITFORD. 221 



THE MORNING WALK. 

Tis a bright summer morn, and the sunlight proud 
Gleams on the water, and sleeps on the cloud, 
Fitfully glitters the wood-path between. 
And casts a broad glow on the shadowy green. 

And a lovely lady is walking there, 

Placid, and gentle, and smiling, and fair, 

With the grace of a queen in her gay palace bowers, 

And a foot that seems born to tread only on flowers. 

And beside that fair lady, so stately and mild, 
Mild, stately, and graceful — a tottering child. 
With her dimpled hand on her dimpled knee. 
Stands, like a model of infancy. 

And fair as they seem in the morn's dewy light. 
The beautiful child, and the lady so bright ; 
We feel, as we view them, a sympathy live 
Truer, purer, and deeper, than beauty can give. 

For there harbors love, with its smiles and its tears, 
Its tender forbodings, its tenderer fears. 
And its hopes, the sweetest on earth that rest — 
The matchless love of a mother's breast. 

'T is that which lends life to her form's proud grace. 
Which awakens the charms of her sparkling face ; 
Her glance may be wandering around the wide land. 
But her thoughts on the treasure she holds by the hand. 
19* 



THE LADIES' WREATH. 



PART SECOND. 



LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 



We have now arrived at the part assigned to our Amer- 
ican Poetesses ; and it is with no small pleasure as well as 
pride that we may begin our list with a name deservedly 
honored and distinguished. The task of examining the 
productions and judging the literary merit of living and 
cotemporary writers, is a difficult and delicate one, more 
especially when those writers are our own countrywomen, 
and esteemed correspondents or personal friends. — But 
respecting the talents and merits of Mrs. Sigourney there 
will be no doubt or cavil. She has nobly won her high 
place in the literature of our country. 

Lydia Huntley was born in Norwich, Connecticut. She 
was the only child of her parents, and reared with great 
tenderness. Her parentage was in that happy mediocrity 
of fortune which requires industry, yet encourages hope — 
and the habits of order and diligence, to which she was 
sedulously trained by her judicious mother, have, no doubt, 
been of inestimable advantage to the poetess. She early 
exhibited indications of genius — perhaps the loneliness of 
her brotherless and sisterless lot had an influence in sub- 



224 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

stituting intellectual pursuits for the common sports of 
childhood. AVe are by no means in favor of establishing 
precocity of intellect as the standard of real genius; yet it 
is certain that many distinguished persons have been mark- 
ed in childhood as extraordinary — the opening blossom 
has given forth the sweet odor which the rich fruit, like 
that of the Mangostan, embodies in its delicious perfection. 
— At eight years of age, the little Lydia was a scribbler 
of rhymes — like Pope lisping in numbers. Her first work 
was published in 1815. It was a small volume, entitled 
" Miscellaneous Pieces in Prose and Verse." Before this 
period, however, she had, fortunately met with a judicious 
and most generous patron. To Daniel Wadsworth, Esq., 
of Hartford, belongs the tribute of praise Avhich is due for 
drawing such a mind from the obscurity where it had re- 
mained " afar from the untasted sunbeam." In 1819 Miss 
Huntley was married to Charles Sigourney, a respectable 
merchant of Hartford, and a gentleman of cultivated taste 
and good literary attainments. — From that period Mrs. 
Sigourney has devoted the leisure which the wife of a man 
of wealth may ahvays command, to literary pursuits. And 
her improvement has been rapid and great. — Her publish- 
ed works are " Traits of the Aborigines " a Poem, written 
in blank verse; "Connecticut Forty Years Since" — a 
prose volume, principally of traditionary description : three 
volumes of " Poems " — a volume of prose " Sketches " — 
" Letters to Young Ladies " — and a number of small books 
for children, — In all these works, varied as they are in 
style and subject, one purpose is recognised as the gov- 
erning motive — the purpose of doing good. — In her prose 
writings, this zeal of heart is the great charm. She always 
describes nature with a lover's feelings for its beauties, 
and with much delicacy and taste ; still we think her tal- 
ent for description is much more graceful and at home in 
the measured lines of her poetry, than in her best prose. 
Her genius brightens in the Muses' smile, and she can 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 225 

command by that spell, as Prospero could with his staff, 
the attendance of the "delicate spirit" of Fancy, which, 
like Ariel, brings 

"Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not: " 

and those " solemn breathing strains " that move conscience 
to its repentant work, or lift the trusting and contrite soul 
to heaven. 

" Oh God ! who can describe Niagara?" exclaimed Mrs. 
Butler, in the agony of her admiration. Mrs. Sigourney 
has described it, and worthily too — and this single poem 
would be sufficient to establish her fame. It does more and 
better, it stamps her as the devoted Christian ; for except 
faith in the " dread Invisible " had sustained her genius, and 
trust in the Savior had kept warm the fount of sympathy in 
her heart, she could not have surrounded a theme so awful, 
strange and lonely, with such images of beauty and hope. 

True it is, that female poetic writers owe their happiest 
efforts to religious feelings. Devotion seems to endow them 
with the martyr's glowing fervency of spirit. In the actu- 
al world the path of woman is very circumscribed, but in 
that "better land" her imagination may range with the 
freedom of an angel's wing. And there the genius of Mrs. 
Sigourney delights to expatiate. And this constant uplift- 
ing of her spirit has given a peculiar cast to her language 
and style; rendering the stately blank verse measure the 
readiest vehicle of lier fancies. She has a wonderful com- 
mand of words, and the fetters of rhyme check the free ex- 
pression of her thoughts. She is also endowed with a fine 
perception of the harmonious and appropriate, and hence 
the smooth flow of the lines, and the perfect adaptation of 
the language to the subject. These qualities eminently 
fit her to be the eulogist of departed worth ; and incline 
her to elegiac poetry. To her tender feelings and natu- 
rally contemplative mind, every knell that summons the 



226 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

mourner to weep, awakens her sympathy, and the dirge 
flows, as would her tears, to comfort the bereaved were she 
beside them. Nor is the death song of necessity melan- 
choly. Many of hers sound the notes of holy triumph, and 
awaken the brightest anticipations of felicity — ay, 

" Teach us of the melody of heaven." 

She " leaves not the trophy of death at the tomb," but 
shows us the " Resurrection and the Life." Thus she ele- 
vates the hopes of the Christian, and chastens the thoughts 
of the worldly minded. This is her mission, the true pur- 
pose of her heaven-endowed mind ; for the inspirations of 
genius are from heaven, and, when not perverted by a cor- 
rupt will, rise as naturally upward as the morning dew on 
the flower is exhaled to the skies. The genius of Mrs. 
Sigourney, like the " imperial Passion Flower," has al- 
ways been 

" Consecrate to Salem's peaceful King, — 
Though fair as any gracing beauty's bower. 
Yet linked to sorrow like a holy thing." 

It is this sadness which shows her strains to be of earth 
— their purity, and serene loveliness are angelic. If there 
is a want felt in reading her eff'usions, it is that of ferven- 
cy : the light is brilliant, but it does not kindle into flame. 
Her "truths" need to be more "impassioned," to produce 
their greatest effect. Yet this deficiency arises from that 
delicacy of taste, which makes her fear to pour forth the 
full gush of her feelings. And it is very rare that a woman 
can or will do this. Hence much of the monotony and 
mediocrity of their poetry. 

We must not omit to record that Mrs. Sigourney is an 
example to her sex in private life, as well as their ad- 
miration in her public career. She is a good wife and de- 
voted mother J she has two children, whom she has hither- 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 227 

to educated entirely herself — and in all domestic knowl- 
edge and the scrupulous performance of domestic duties, 
she shows as ready acquaintance and as much skill as 
though these only formed her pursuit. Her literary studies 
are her recreation — surely as rational a mode of occupying 
the leisure of a lady, as the morning call, or the fashion- 
able party. 



NIAGARA. 

Flow on forever, in thy glorious robe 
Of terror and of beauty — God hath set 
His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud 
Mantled around thy feet. — And he doth give 
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him 
Eternally — bidding the lip of man 
Keep silence, and upon thy rocky altar pour 
Incense of awe-struck praise. 

And who can dare 
To lift the insect trump of earthly hope, 
Or love, or sorrow, — 'mid the peal sublime 
Of thy tremendous hymn? — Even Ocean shrinks 
Back from thy brotherhood, and his wild waves 
Retire abashed. — For he doth sometimes seem 
To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall 
His wearied billows from their vexing play. 
And lull them to a cradle calm: — but thou, 
With everlasting, undecaying tide, 
Dost rest not night or day. 



228 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

The morning stars. 
When first they sang o'er young creation's birth, 
Heard thy deep anthem, — and those wrecking fires 
That wait the Archangel's signal to dissolve 
The solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name 
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears, 
On thine unfathomed page. — Each leafy bough 
That lifts itself within thy proud domain, 
Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, 
And tremble at the baptism. — Lo! yon birds 
Do venture boldly near, bathing their wing 
Amid thy foam and mist — 'Tis meet for them 
To touch thy garment's hem, — or lightly stir 
The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath, — 
Who sport unharmed upon the fleecy cloud, 
And listen at the echoing gate of heaven. 
Without reproof. But as for us, — it seems 
Scarce lawful with our broken tones to speak 
Familiarly of thee. — Methinks, to tint 
Thy glorious features with our pencil's point, 
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song. 
Were profanation. 

Thou dost make the soul 
A wondering witness of thy majesty ; 
And while it rushes with delirious joy 
To tread thy vestibule, dost chain its step. 
And check its rapture with the humbling view 
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand 
In the dread presence of the Invisible, 
As if to answer to its God through thee. 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 229 



WINTER. 

I DEEM thee not unlovely, — though thou com'st 
With a stern visage. — To the tuneful bird, — 
The tender flow'ret, — the rejoicing stream, 
Thy discipline is harsh. — But unto Man 
Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministry, — 
Thy lengthened eve is full of fire-side joys, 
And deathless linking of warm heart to heart ; 
So that the hoarse stream passes by unheard. — 
Earth, rob'd in white, a peaceful Sabbath holds. 
And keepeth silence at her Maker's feet. — 
She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough. 
And from the harvest shouting. — 

Man should rest 
Thus from his fevered passions, — and exhale 
The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought, 
And drink in holy health. — As the tossed bark 
Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay, 
To trim its shattered cordage, and repair 
Its riven sails. — So should the toil-worn mind 
Refit for Time's rough voyage. — Man, perchance, 
Soured by the world's sharp commerce, — or impaired 
By the wild wanderings of his summer's way. 
Turns, like a truant scholar toward his home. 
And yields his nature to sweet influences 
That purify and save. — 

The ruddy boy 
Comes with his shouting school-mates from their sport, 
On the smooth frozen lake, as the first star 
Hangs pure and cold, its silver cressit forth ; 
20 



230 THP LADIES' WREATH. 

And, throwing off his skates, with boisterous glee, 
Hastes to his mother's side. — Her tender hand 
Doth shake the snow-flakes from his glossy curls, 
And draw him nearer, and, with gentle voice, 
Asks of his lessons — while her lifted heart 
Solicits silently the Sire of Heaven 
To bless the lad. — 

The timid infant learns 
Better to love its father, — longer sits 
Upon his knee, and with a velvet lip 
Prints on his brow such language, as the tongue 
Hath never spoken. — 

Come thou to life's feast. 
With dove-eyed meekness and bland charity, — 
And thou shalt find even Winter's rugged blast 
The minstrel-teacher of the well-tuned soul ; 
And when the last drop of its cup is drained, 
Arising with a song of praise, go up 
To the eternal banquet. 



NATURE'S ROYALTY. 

" Show me a king, whose high decree 

By all his realm is blest, 
Whose heaven-deputed sway, shall be 

Deep in his subject's breast." 
And lo, a lofty throne was nigh, 

A gorgeous f urple robe, 
A crowned brow and eagle eye 

That aimed to rule the globe. 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 231 

Peers at his bidding came and went, 

Proud hosts to battle trod ; 
Even high-souPd Genius lowly bent, 

And hailed him as a God. 
Wealth spread her treasures to his sight. 

Fame bade her clarion roll, 
But yet his sceptre seem'd to blight 

The freedom of the soul. 

And deep within his bosom lay 

The poison'd thorn of care, 
Nor ermined pomp, nor regal sway 

Forbade its rankling there. 
No fearless truth his ear addressed. 

Though crowds extolled his ways, 
A hollow-hearted thing at best 

Was all their courtly praise. 

I saw Suspicion cloud his day. 

And Fear his firmness move, 
And felt there was no perfect sway 

Save what is built on love. 
" Show me a king." — They brought a child 

Clad in his robe of white, 
His golden curls waved loose and wild, 

His full blue eye was bright. 

A haughty warrior strode that way, 

Whose crest had never bowed 
Beneath his brother of the clay 

In battle or in crowd: — 
Yet down before that babe he bent, 

A captive to his charms. 
And meek as with a slave's intent, 

Receiv'd him in his arms. 



232 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Beauty was near, and love's warm sigh 

Burst forth from manhood's breast, 
While pride was kindling in that eye 

Which saw its power confest : — 
" Sing me a song," the urchin cried. 

And from her lips did part, 
A strain to kneeling man denied, 

Rich music of the heart. 

A sage austere, for learning famed, 

Frown'd with abstracted air : 
"Tell me a tale," the boy exclaimed, 

And boldly climbed his chair : — 
While he — (how wondrous was the change !) 

Poured forth in language free. 
Enforced with gestures strong and strange, 

A tale of Araby. 

"I sought a king^y — And Nature cried 

His royalty revere. 
Who conquers beauty, power and pride, 

Thus with a smile or tear. 
The crowned despot's eye may wake, 

His bosom grieve alone. 
But infant Innocence doth make 

The human heart its throne. 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 233 



STANZAS. 

" Arise ye, and depart, — for this is not your rest."' 

MiCAH ii. 8, 10. 

The vines are wither'd oh, my love, 

That erst we taught to tower, 
And in a mesh of fragrance wove, 

Around our summer-bower. 

The ivy on the ancient wall 

Doth in its budding fade ; 
The stream is dry, — whose gentle fall 

A lulling murmur made. 

The tangled weeds have chok'd the flowers ; 

The trees so lately bright. 
In all the pomp of vernal hours 

Reveal a blackening blight. 

There is a sigh upon the gale 

That doth the willow sway, 
A murmur from the blossoms pale, 

" Arise, and come away." 

So, when this life in clouds shall hide 

Its garland fair and brief, 
And every promise of its pride 

Doth wear the frosted leaf; 

Then may the undying soul attain 

That heritage sublime, 
Where comes no pang of parting pain, 

No change of hoary time. 
20* 



234 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



RADIANT CLOUDS AT SUNSET. 

Bright Clouds ! ye are gathering one by one, 
Ye are sweeping in pomp round the dying sun. 
With crimson banner, and golden pall, 
Like a host to their chieftain's funeral ; 
Perchance ye tread to that hallowed spot 
With a muffled dirge, though we hear it not. 

But, methinks ye tower with a lordlier crest 

And a gorgeous flush as he sinks to rest ; 

Not thus in the day of his pride and wrath 

Did ye dare to press on his glorious path; 

At his noontide glance ye have quaked with fear, 

And hasted to hide in your misty sphere. 

Do you say he is dead? — You exult in vain, 
With your rainbow robe and your swelling train : 
He shall rise again with his strong, bright ray ; 
He shall reign in power when you fade away, — 
When ye darkly cower in your vapory hall, 
Tintless, and naked, and noteless all. 

The Soul — ! the Soul ! — with its eye of fire, 
Thus, thus shall it soar when its foes expire ; 
It shall spread its wings o'er the ills that pained. 
The evils that shadowed, the sins that stained ; 
It shall dwell where no rushing cloud hath sway, 
And the pageants of earth shall have melted away. 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 235 



A COTTAGE SCENE. 

1 SAW a cradle at a cottage door, 
Where the fair mother with her cheerful wheel 
Carolled so sweet a song, that the young bird, 
Which timid near the threshold sought for seeds. 
Paused on his lifted foot, and raised his head, 
As if to listen. The rejoicing bees 
Nestled in throngs amid the woodbine cups. 
That o'er the lattice clustered. A clear stream 
Came leaping from its sylvan height, and poured 
Music upon the pebbles, — and the winds 
Which gently 'mid the vernal branches played 
Their idle freaks, brought showering blossoms down. 
Surfeiting earth with sweetness. 

Sad I came 
From weary commerce with the heartless world ; 
But when I felt upon my withered cheek 
My mother Nature's breath, — and heard the trump 
Of those gay insects at their honied toil, 
Shining like winged jewelry, — and drank 
The healthful odor of the flowering trees 
And bright-eyed violets ; -— but most of all. 
When I beheld mild slumbering Innocence, 
And on that young maternal brow the smile 
Of those affections which do purify 
And renovate the soul, I turned me back 
In gladness, and with added strength to run 
My weary race — lifting a thankful prayer 
To Him who showed me some bright tints of heaven 
Here on the earth, that I might safer walk. 
And firmer combat sin, and surer rise 
From earth to heaven. 



236 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



SOLITUDE. 

Deep Solitude I sought. — There was a dell 
Where woven shades shut out the eye of day, 
While towering near, the ragged mountains made 
Dark back-grounds Against the sky. 

Thither I went, 
And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount 
For which it long had thirsted 'mid the strife 
And fever of the world. — I thought to he 
There without witness. — but the violet's eye 
Looked up to greet me, the fresh wild-rose smiled, 
And the young pendent vine-flower kissed my cheek. 
There were glad voices, too, — the garrulous brook. 
Untiring, to the patient pebbles told 
Its history. — Up came the singing breeze 
And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake 
Responsive every one. — Even busy life 
Woke in that dell. — The dexterous spider threw 
From spray to spray the silver-tissued snare. 
The thrifty ant, whose curving pincers pierced 
The rifled grain, toiled toward her citadel. 
To her sweet hive went forth the loaded bee. 
While from her wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird 
Sang to her nurslings. — 

Yet I strangely thought 
To be alone and silent in thy realm. 
Spirit of life and love ! — it might not be ! — 
There is no solitude in thy domains. 
Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast 
He locks his joys, and shuts out others' grief. 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 237 

Thou hast not left thyself in this wide world 
Without a witness. Even the desert place 
Speaketh thy name. The simple flowers and streams 
Are social and benevolent, and he 
Who holdeth converse in their language pure. 
Roaming among them at the cool of day, 
Shall find, like him who Eden's garden drest. 
His Maker there, to teach his listening heart. 



ALICE. 

A very interesting" daughter of the late Dr. Cogswell, who was 
deprived of the powers of hearing and speech, cherished so ardent 
an affection for her father, that, after his death, she said, in her 
strong language of gesture, that " her heart had so grown to his, it 
could not be separated." By the providence of the Almighty she 
was called in a few days to follow him ; and from the abodes of 
bliss, where we trust she has obtained a mansion, may we not im- 
agine her as 'thus addressing the objects of her fondest earthly af- 
fections 1 

Sisters! — there's music here, 

From countless harps it flows, 
Throughout this bright celestial sphere 
Nor pause, nor discord knows. 
The seal is melted from my ear 

By love divine. 
And what through life I pined to hear 
Is mine ! Is mine ! 
The warbling of an ever-tuneful choir 
And the full, deep response of David's sacred lyre. 
Did kind earth hide from me 
Her broken harmony, 



238 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

That thus the melodies of heaven might roll, 
And whelm in deeper tides of bliss, my rapt, my wondering 
soul? 

Joy ! — I am mute no more, — 

My sad and silent years. 
With all their loneliness are o'er ; 
Sweet sisters ! dry your tears : 
Listen at hush of eve — listen at dawn of day — 
List at the hour of prayer — can ye not hear my lay? 
Untaught, unchecked it came. 
As light from chaos beamed, 
Praising his everlasting name. 
Whose blood from Calvary streamed — 
And still it swells that highest strain, the song of the re- 
deemed. 

Brother ! — my only one ! 

Beloved from childhood's hours. 
With whom, beneath the vernal sun, 
I wandered when our task was done. 
And gathered early flowers ; 
I cannot come to thee. 
Though 'twas so sweet to rest 
Upon thy gently-guiding arm — thy sympathizing breast. 
^Tis better here to be. 
No disappointments shroud 
The angel-bowers of joy; 
Our knowledge hath no cloud. 

Our pleasures no alloy, 
The fearful word — to part, 
Is never breathed above ; 
Heaven hath no broken heart — 
Call me not hence, my love. 

Oh, mother ! — He is here 
To whom my soul so grew, 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 239 

That when Death's fatal spear 
Stretched him upon his bier, 
I fain must follow too. 
His smile my infant griefs restrained — 

His image in my childish dream 
And o'er my young affection's reigned, 
With gratitude unuttered and supreme. 
But yet, till these refulgent ski-es burst forth in radiant glow^ 
I knew not half the unmeasured debt a daughter's heart 
doth owe. 
Ask ye, if still his heart retains its ardent glow? 
Ask ye, if filial love 
Unbodied spirits prove ? 
' Tis but a little space, and thou shalt rise to know. 
I bend to soothe thy woes,— 
How near — thou canst not see — 
I wa ( h thy lone repose, 
Alice doth comfort thee; 
To wekome thee I wait--blesl mother! come tome. 



THE CORAL INSECT. 

Toil on! toil on! ye ephemeral train. 

Who build in the tossing and treacherous main ; 

Toil on, for the wisdom of man ye mock. 

With your sand-based structures and domes of rock, 

Your columns the fathomless fountains lave. 

And your arches spring up through the r sted wave 

Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear 

A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. 

Ye bfnd the deep with your secret zone, 
The ocean is sealed, and the surge a stone, 



240 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Fresh wreaths from the coral pavements spring 
Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king ; 
The turf looks green where the breakers rolled, 
O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold ; 
The sea-snatched isle is the home of men. 
And mountains exult where the wave hath been. 

But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark 
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark? 
There are snares enough on the tented fitld, 
'Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield; 
There are serpents to coil ere the flowers are up, 
There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup. 
There are foes that watch for his cradle-breath, 
And why need ye sow the floods with death? 

With mouldering bones the deeps are white, 
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright; 
The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold. 
With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold. 
And the gods of ocean have frowned to see 
The mariner's bed 'mid their halls of glee. 
Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread 
The boundless sea with the thronging dead ? 

Ye build ! ye build ! but ye enter not in; 

Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in theit sin, 

From the land of promise, ye fade and die. 

Ere its verdure gleams forth on your wearied eye, 

As the cloud-crowned pyramids' founders sleep, 

Noteless and lost in oblivion deep; 

Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the desolate main, 

While the wonder and pride of your works remain. 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 241 



THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.* 

Long hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole 
In her soft ministry around thy bed, 
Spreading her vernal tissue, violet gemmed, 
And pearled with dews. 

She bade bright Summer bring 
Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds, 
And Autumn cast his reaper's coronet 
Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak 
Sternly of man's neglect. 

But now we come 
To do thee homage — mother of our chief! 
Fit homage — such as honoreth him who pays. 

Methinks we see thee — as in olden time — 
Simple in garb — majestic and serene. 
Unmoved by pomp or circumstance — in truth 
Inflexible, and with a Spartan zeal 
Repressing vice, and making folly grave. 
Thou didst not deem it woman's part to waste 
Life in inglorious sloth — to sport a while 
Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave. 
Then fleet, like the ephemeron, away. 
Building no temple in her children's hearts, 
Save to the vanity and pride of life 
Which she had worshipped. 

For the might that clothed 
The " Pater Patriae," for the glorious deeds 
That make Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca shrine 
For all the earth, what thanks to ihee are due, 

* On laying the corner-stone of the monument to her memory. 
21 



242 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Who, 'mid his elements of being, wrought. 
We know not — Heaven can tell. 

Rise, sculptured pile! 
And show a race unborn, who rests below ; 
And say to mothers what a holy charge 
Is theirs — with what a kingly power their love 
Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind. 
Warn them to wake at early dawn — and sow 
Good seed, before the world hath sown her tares ; 
Nor in their toil decline — that angel-bands 
May put the sickle in, and reap for God, 
And gather to his garner. 

Ye, who stand. 
With thrilling breast, to view her trophied praise. 
Who nobly reared Virginia's godlike chief — 
Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch, 
MVhose Jirst at waking, is your cradled son, — 
What though no high ambition prompts to rear 
A second Washington; or leave your name 
Wrought out in marble with a nation's tears 
Of deathless gratitude — yet may you raise 
A monument above the stars — a soul 
Led, by your teachings and your prayers, to God. 



POETRY. 

Morn on her rosy couch awoke, 

Enchantment led the hour. 
And mirth and music drank the dews 

That freshen'd Beauty's flower. 
Then from her bower of deep delight, 

I heard a young girl sing, — 
" Oh, speak no ill of poetry, 

For 'tis a noly tnmg." 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 243 

The SuD in noon-day heat rose high. 

And on, with heaving breast, 
I saw a weary pilgrim toil 

Unpitied and unblest. 
Yet still in trembling measures flow'd 

Forth from a broken string, — 
" Oh, speak no ill of poetry. 

For 'tis a holy thing," 

'Twas night, and Death the curtains drew, 

'Mid agony severe. 
While there a willing spirit went 

Home to a glorious sphere. 
Yet still it sigh'd, even when was spread 

The waiting Angel's wing, — 
"Oh, speak no ill of poetry, 

For 'tis a holy thing." 



FILIAL CLAIMS. 

Who bendeth, with meek eye and bloodless cheek, 

Thus o'er the new-born babe? content to take 

As payment for all agony and pain. 

Its first soft kiss, its first breath on her brow, 

The first faint pressure of its tiny hand ? 

It is not needful that I speak the name 

Of that one being on this earth, whose love 

Doth never falter. 

Answer me, young man. 
Thou, who thro' chance and change of time hast trod 
Thus far, when some with vengeful wrath have mark'd 
Thy waywardness, or in thy time of woe 
Deserted thee, or with a rainbow smile 



244 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Lur'd and forsook, or on thine errors scowl'd 
With unforgiving memory, — did she? 
Thy Mother? 

Child ! in whose rejoicing heart 
The cradle-scene is fresh, the lulling hymn 
Still clearly echoed, when the blight of age 
Withereth that bosom, Avhere thine head doth lay, 
When pain shall paralyze the arm that clasps 
Thy form so tenderly, unit thou forget? 
Wilt thou be weary, tho' long years should ask 
The patient offices of love to gird 
A broken mind ? 

Turn back the book of life 
To its first page. What deep trace meets thee there? 
Lines from a Mothe7-''s pencil. When her scroll 
Of life is finish'd and the hand of Death 
Stamps that strong seal, which none but God can break, 
What should its last trace be? 

Thy bending form 
In sleepless love, the dying couch beside, 
Thy tender hand upon the closing eye. 
Thy kiss upon the lips, thy prayer to Heaven, 
The chasten'd rendering of thy filial trust, 
Up to the white-wingM angel ministry. 



WASHINGTON'S BIRTH-DAY.* 

There is a festive strain Avithin the walls 
Of the Eternal City, and high praise 
Unto the glorious dead. Beauty doth twine 
Her votive wreath, and Eloquence and Song 
In eulogy burst forth. To whom, O Rome, 

* Celebrated at Rome, by the Americans, February 22d, 1829. 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 245 

Mid all thy heroes, all thy demi-gods, 
Thy piirple-rob'd and mitred ones, to whom 
Riseth this homage ? But she wav'd her hand, 
And pointed me in silence, as of scorn. 
Unto a stranger-band. Yes, there they stood. 
The children of that Western Clime which slept 
In embryo darkness, when tiara'd Rome 
In all the peevish plenitude of power 
Call'd Earth her footstool. There they stood serene, 
True sons of that fair realm which needeth not 
The faded pomp of royal pageantry 
To trick her banner. Wheresoe'er they roam, 
Whether 'mid Andes' canopy of cloud. 
Or the sunk cells of groping Labrador, 
Or the broad seas, or the bright tropic-isles 
Where Nature in her noon-day faintness holds 
A long siesta, — still their hearts enshrine 
Liberty as a God. There, 'neath the shade 
Of the Colliseum vaulting up to Heaven, 
The time-spar'd arch, the mighty Basilic, 
Palace, and pantheon, and monument. 
Where throng a wondering world in pilgrimage, 
They how no knee to Cesar ^ but compel 
The kingly Tiber to pronounce the name 
Of their own Washington. Sublime they pour 
Warm Memory's incense to their Country's Sire, 
He, who in pliant infancy was train'd 
By Spartan nurture ^'r.9^ to rule himself 
And then a young, embattled host to lead 
Through toil and terror, to a glorious seat 
Among the nations. Then when every eye 
Of every clime was bent on him with awe 
Like adoration, from his breast he rent 
The adhesive panoply of power, retir'd 
From the loud paeans of a world, to sleep 
21* 



246 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Uncrown'd, uncoronetted, 'mid the soil 

His hands had till'd. Henceforth let none decry 

The majesty of virtue, since she stands 

Simply on the high places of the earth, 

Her open forehead to the scanning stars, 

And the pure-hearted worship her, while Pride 

And tyrant Power and laurell'd Victory 

Do give their sculptur'd trophies to the owl 

And noisome bat, and to the shades pass on 

With such memorial as ne'er wrung a tear. 



THE BRIDE.. 

I CAME, — but she was gone. 

In her fair home. 
There lay her lute, just as she touch'd it last, 
At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups 
Fill'd with pure fragrance. On her favorite seat 
Lay the still open work-box, and that book 
Which last she read, its pencil'd margin mark'd 
By an ill-auoted passage, — trac'd, perchance. 
With hand unconscious, while her lover spake 
That dialect, which brings forgetfulness 
Of all beside. It was the cherish'd home. 
Where from her childhood she had been the star 
Of hope and joy. 

I came, — and she was gone. 
Yet I had seen her from the altar led. 
With silvery veil but slightly swept aside. 
The fresh, young rose-bud deepening in her cheek, 
And on her brow the sweet and solemn thought 
Of one who gives a priceless gift away. 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 247 

And there was silence mid the gather'd throng. 
The stranger, and the hard of heart, did draw 
Their breath supprest, to see the mother's lip 
Turn ghastly pale, and the majestic sire 
Shrink as with smother'd sorrow, when he gave 
His darling to an untried guardianship, 
And to a far off clime. 

Haply his thought 
Travers'd the grass-grown prairies, and the shore 
Of the cold lakes; or those o'erhanging cliffs 
And pathless mountain tops, that rose to bar 
Her log-rear'd mansion from the anxious eye 
Of kindred and of friend. Even triflers felt 
How strong and beautiful is woman's love, 
That, taking in its hand its thornless joys. 
The tenderest melodies of tuneful years, 
Yea! and its own life also, — lays them all, 
Meek and unblenching, on a mortal's breast 
Reserving nought, save that unspoken hope 
Which hath its root in God. 

Mock not with mirth, 
A scene like this, ye laughter-loving ones; — 
The licens'd jester's lip, the dancer's heel — 
What do they here ? 

Joy, serious and sublime, 
Such as doth nerve the energies of prayer. 
Should swell the bosom, when a maiden's hand, 
Fill'd with life's dewy flow'rets, girdeth on 
That harness, which the ministry of Death 
Alone unlooseth, but whose fearful power 
May stamp the sentence of Eternity, 



248 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



INDIAN NAMES. 

«' How can the red man be forgotten, while so many of our states 
and territories, bays, lakes and rivers, are indelibly stamped by 
names of their givmg 1 " 

Ye say they all have passed away, 

That noble race and brave; 
That their light canoes have vanished 

From off the crested wave ; 
That 'mid the forest where they roamed 

There rings no hunter shout; 
But their name is on your waters, 

Ye may not wash it out. 

' Tis where Ontario's billow 

Like Ocean's sure is curled, 
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake 

The echo of the world. 
Where red Missouri bringeth 

Rich tribute from the west. 
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 

On green Virginia's breast. 

Ye say their cone-like cabins, 

That clustered o'er the vale, 
Have fled away like withered leaves 

Before the autumn gale ; 
But their memory liveth on your hills, 

Their baptism on your shore; 
Your everlasting rivers speak 

Their dialect of yore. 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 249 

Old Massachusetts wears it 

Within her lordly crown, 
And broad Ohio bears it 

Amid his young renown ; 
Connecticut hath wreathed it 

Where her quiet foliage waves, 
And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse 
Through all her ancient caves. 

Wachuset hides its lingering voice 

Within his rocky heart. 
And Alleghany graves its tone 

Throughout his lofty chart j 
Monadnock on his forehead hoar 

Doth seal the sacred trust. 
Your mountains build their monument, 

Though ye destroy their dust.. 



DEATH OF AN INFANT. 

Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow, 
And dashed it out. — There was a tint of rose 
On cheek and lip ; — he touched the veins with ice 
And the rose faded. — Forth from those blue eyes 
There spake a wistful tenderness, a doubt 
Whether to grieve or sleep, which Innocence 
Alone can wear. — With ruthless haste he bound 
The fringes of their curtained lids 
Forever. — There had been a murmuring sound 
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, 
Charming her even to tears. — The spoiler set 
His seal of silence. — But there beamed a smile 
So fixed and holy from that marble brow, — 
Death gazed and left it there j — he dared not steal 
The signet ring of heaven. 



250 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



FELICIA REMANS. 

Nature doth mourn for thee. There is no need 

For Man to strike his plaintive lyre, and fail, — 

As fail he must, — if he attempt thy praise. 

The little plant that never sang before, 

Save one sad requiem when its blossoms fell. 

Sighs deeply, through its drooping leaves, for thee 

As for a florist fallen. The ivy wreath'd 

Round the grey turrets of a buried race, 

And the tall palm, that like a prince doth rear 

Its diadem 'neath Asia's burning sky. 

With their dim legends blend thy glorious name. 

Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make 

Whatever it touched, most holy. The pure shell, 

Laying its pearly lip on ocean's floor. 

The cloister'd chambers where the sea-gods sleep. 

And the unfathom'd melancholy main. 

Lament for thee, through all the sounding deeps. 

— Hark ! from snow-breasted Himmaleh, to where 

Snowden doth weave his coronet of cloud, 

From the scath'd pine-tree, near the red man's hut, 

To where the everlasting banian builds 

Its vast columnar temple, comes a moan 

For thee, whose ritual made each rocky height 

An altar, and each cottage home the haunt 

Of Poesy. Yea, thou didst find the link 

That joins mute nature to ethereal mind, 

And made that link a melody. 

The couch 
Of thy last sleep was in the native clime 
Of song and eloquence, and ardent soul, — 
Spot fitly chosen for thee. Perchance, that isle, 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 251 

So lov'd of favoring skies, yet bann'd by fate, 
Might shadow forth thine own unspoken lot. 
For at thy heart the ever-pointed thorn 
Did gird itself, until thy life-stream oozed 
In gushes of such deep and thrilling song, 
That angels, poising on some silver cloud, 
Might linger 'mid the errands of the skies, 
And listen, all unblam'd. 

How tenderly 
Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest, 
And like a nurse, with finger on her lip 
Watch lest some step disturb thee, — striving still 
From other hands, thy sacred harp to guard. — 
Waits she thy waking, as some Mother waits 
The babe, whose gentle spirit sleep hath stolen, 
And laid it dreaming on the lap of Heaven? 
— We say not thou art dead. We dare not. No. 
For every mountain stream and shadowy dell 
Where thy rich harpings linger, would hurl back 
The falsehood on our souls. Thou speak'st alike 
The simple language of the freckled flower. 
And of the glorious stars. God taught it thee.] 
And from thy living intercourse with man. 
Thou shalt not pass away, until this earth 
Drops her last gem into the doom's-day flame. 
Thou hast but taken thy seat with that blest choir 
Whose hymns thy tuneful spirit learn'd so well 
From this subluner terrace, and so long 
Interpreted. Therefore, we wall not say 
Farewell to thee : — for every unborn age 
Shall mix thee with its household charities ; 
The sage shall meet thee with his benison. 
And woman shrine thee as a vestal flame 
In all the temples of her sanctity, — 
And the young child shall take thee by the hand, 
And travel with a surer step to heaven. 



252 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



"BLESSED ARE THE DEAD." 

Come, gather to this burial-place, ye gay ! 

Ye, of the sparkling eye, and frolic brow, 

I bid ye hither. She, who makes her bed 

This day, 'neath yon damp turf, with spring-flowers sown, 

Was one of you. Time had not laid his hand 

On tress or feature, stamping the dread lines, 

Of chill decay, till Death had nought to do. 

Save that slight office which the passing gale 

Doth to the wasted taper* No, her cheek 

Shamed the young rose-bud ; in her eye was light 

By gladness kindled ; in her footsteps grace; 

Song on her lips ; affections in her breast. 

Like soft doves nesting. Yet, from all she turned, 

All she forsook, unclasping her warm hand 

From Friendship's ardent pressure, with such smile 

As if she were the gainer. To lie down 

In this dark pit she cometh, dust to dust. 

Ashes to ashes, till the glorious morn 

Of resurrection. Wondering do you ask — 

Where is her blessechiess ! Go home, ye gay. 

Go to your secret chambers, and kneel down, 

And ask of God. LTrge your request like him 

Who on the slight raft, 'mid the ocean's foam 

Toileth for life. i\.nd when ye win a hope. 

That the world gives not, and a faith divine. 

Ye will no longer marvel how the friend 

So beautiful, so loved, so lured by all 

The pageantry on earth, could meekly find 

A blessedness in death. 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 



The great popularity of Miss Gould we consider a most 
encouraging omen for the lovers of genuine poetry, of that 
which is true in thought and natural in description. She 
charms by the rare merit of imparting interest to small 
things and common occurrences. These make up far the 
greater part of life's reality, and, if truth be the essence of 
poetry, they must be poetical. Unfortunately, but few 
poets have had the power or the inclination to invest the 
actual world with the beauty and attractiveness which has 
been lavished on ideal and false creations of fancy ; and 
hence it is that their labors have been accounted idle, and 
their profession degraded. Passion has too often usurped 
the place of reason, and a selfish sensitiveness been fos- 
tered, instead of that healthful sentiment of complacency 
in the happiness of others, which all high exercise of the 
mental faculties should exah and encourage. It is this en- 
larging and elevating the affections, which improves the 
heart and purifies the taste. And this is one important 
office of true poetry — such poetry as Miss Gould has written. 

She also possesses great delicacy and scope of imagina- 
tion; she gathers around her simple themes imagery of pe- 
culiar beauty and uncommon association — and yet this 
imagery is always appropriate. Then she has a very felici- 
tous command of language, and the skill of making the 
22 



254 THE LADIES' WREATH 

most uncouth words "lie smooth in rhyme," which the 
greatest poet of the age might envy. And she, not seldom, 
displays humorous turns of thought, and a sportive raillery 
which is very amusing. 

Wit is a much more rare quality than wisdom in female 
writers. We shall not here enter into the inquiry why it 
is that women, who are, proverbially, quick in perception, 
and who are often accused of delighting in repartee and 
scandal, should nevertheless, when submitting their senti- 
ments to the public, almost scrupulously avoid ridicule and 
satire, even when the subjects treated of seemed to justify 
or demand these forms of expression. But such is the fact 
— and hence Miss Gould's sprightly wit has the advan- 
tage of appearing more original. She, however, uses it 
with great delicacy, and always to teach or enforce some 
lesson which would not disparage " divine Philosophy," to 
inculcate. — In truth, the great power of her poetry is its 
moral application. This hallows every object she looks 
upon, and ennobles every incident she celebrates. She 
takes lowly and homely themes, but she turns them to the 
light of heaven, and they are beautified, and refined, and 
elevated. She brings to her God the rich treasures of 
her intellect, and the warm feelings of her heart. Every- 
where and in every thing she sees and feels His presence; 
and her song rises in those " spiritual breathings," which 
lift the hearts of her readers, to unite with her, in praise 
to the Lord. 

The mania for melancholy and despairing poetry, which 
the Byronia era introduced, never found any favor in the 
clear, calm, sensible mind of our poetess. Her philosophy 
is as practical and contented as her piety is ardent. — Her 
motto seems to have been 

" The Muse should gladden the seasons, 
Should strengthen the heart in pain" — 

and like her own " Ground Laurel " she adds cheerfulness 
to every scene, however sequestered or lonely, which her 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 255 

fancy pictures. Truly such a genius is a blessing to the 
world. 

Miss Gould is a native of Massachusetts, and now re- 
sides at Newburyport, housekeeper, nurse and friend of her 
aged father, who was a veteran of the Revolution. She 
did not appear before the public as a writer till her powers 
of mind were matured, and she has, therefore, few juvenile 
errors of fancy to regret. — Her poems were first published 
in the periodicals and annuals, from whence she has col- 
lected and issued them in two volumes. This more per- 
manent form was demanded by their popularity — a strange 
thing for poetry^ the booksellers say. Her poems will be 
popular while truth has friends and nature admirers, and 
while children are readers. And what praise is sweeter 
to a pure, good mind than the praise of childhood, in which 
the heart is always given with the lips? 



THE ZEPHYR'S SOLILOaUY. 

Though from whence I came, or whither I go. 
My end or my nature I ne'er may know, 
I will number o'er to myself a few 
Of the countless things I am born to do. 
I flit in the days of the joyous Spring, 
Through field and forest, and freight my wing 
With the spice of the buds, which I haste to bear 
Where I know that man will inhale the air. 
And while I hover o'er beauty's lip, 
I part her locks with my pinion's tip; 
Or brighten her cheek with my fond caress. 
And breathe in the folds of her lightsome dress. 
I love to sport with the silken curl 
On the lily neck of the laughing girl; 



256 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

To dry the tear of the weeping boy, 

Who 's breaking his heart for a broken toy ; 

To fan the heat of his brow away, 

And over his mother's harp-strings play, 

Till, his grief forgotten, he looks around, 

For the secret hand that has waked the sound. 

I love, when the warrior mails his breast, 

To toss the head of his snow-white crest: 

To take the adieu that he turns to leave. 

And the sigh that his lady retires to heave ! 

When the sultry sun, of a summer's day. 

Each sparkling dew-drop has dried away, 

And the flowers are left to thirst to death, 

I love to come and afford them breath ; 

And, under each languid drooping thing, 

To place my balmy and cooling wing. 

When the bright fresh showers have just gone by, 

And the rainbow stands in the evening sky, 

Oh I then is the merriest time for me, 

And I and my race have a jubilee ! 

We fly to the gardens, and shake the drops 

From the bending boughs, and the floweret tops ; 

And revel unseen in the calm star-light, 

Or dance on the moon-beams the live-long night. 

These, ah ! these are my hours of gladness ! 

But, I have my days and my nights of sadness! 

When I go to the cheek where I kissed the rose, 
And 't is turning as white as the mountain snows ; 
While the eye of beauty must soon be hid 
Forever beneath its sinking lid — 
Oh ! I'd give my whole self but to spare that gasp, 
And save her a moment from dea.A's cold grasp! 
And when she is borne to repose alone 
'Neath the fresh cut sod, and the church-yard stone, 
I keep close by her and do my best 
To lift the dark pall from the sleeper's breast ; 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 257 

And linger behind with the beautiful clay, 

When friends and kindred have gone their way ! 

When the babe whose dimples I used to fan, 

T see completing its earthly span, 

I long, with a spirit so pure, to go 

From the scene of sorrow and tears below, 

Till I rise so high I can catch the song 

Of welcome that bursts from the angel throng, 

As it enters its rest — but alas ! alas ! 

I am only from death to death to pass. 

I hasten away over mountain and flood, 

And find 1 'm alone on a field of blood. 

The soldier is there — but he breathes no more; 

And there is the plume, but 't is stained with gore ; 

I flutter and strive in vain, to place 

The end of his scarf on his marble face; 

And find not even a sigh, to take 

To her, whose heart is so soon to break ! 

I fly to the flowers I loved so much — 

They are pale, and drop at my slightest touch. 

The earth is in ruins ! — I turn to the sky — 

It frowns ! — and what can I do, but die ? 



THE LITTLE FOOT. 

My boy, as gently on my breast. 
From infant sport thou sink'st to rest, 
And on my hand I feel thee put. 
In playful dreams, thy little foot, 
The thrilling touch sets every string 
Of my full heart a quivering; 
For, ah ! I think, what chart can show, 
The ways through which this foot may go? 
22* 



258 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Its print will be, in childhood's hours. 
Traced in the garden, round the flowers; 
But youth will bid it leap the rills — 
Bathe in the dews of distant hills — 
Roam o'er the vales, and venture out 
When riper years would pause and doubt; 
Nor brave the pass, nor try the brink 
Where youth's unguarded foot may sink. 

But what, when manhood tints thy cheek, 
Will be the ways this foot may seek? 
Is it to lightly pace the deck? 
To, helpless, slip from off the wreck? 
Or wander o'er a foreign shore. 
Returning to thy home no more, 
Until the bosom, now thy pillow, 
Is low and cold beneath the willow ? 

Or, is it for the battle plain ? 

Beside the slayer and the slain — 

Till there its final step be taken? 

There, sleep thine eye, no more to waken? 

Is it to glory, or to shame — 

To sully, or to gild thy name — 

Is it to happiness or wo. 

This little foot is made to go ? 

But wheresoe'er its lines may fall. 
Whether in cottage, or in hall; 
O, may it ever shun the ground 
Where'er His foot had not been found, 
Who on his path below, hath shed 
A living light, that all may tread 
Upon his earthly steps ; and none 
E'er dash the foot against a stone ! 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 259 

Yet if thy way is mark'd by fate. 
As guilty, dark and desolate, — 
If thou must float, by vice and crime, 
A wreck, upon the stream of time — 
Oh ! rather than behold that day, 
I'd know this foot, in lightsome play, 
Would bound with guiltless, infant glee 
Upon the sod that shelters me. 



THE FROST. 

The Frost looked forth one still, clear night, 
And whispered, " Now I shall be out of sight ; 
So through the valley and over the height 

In silence I'll take my way. 
I will not go on like that blustering train, 
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain. 
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain. 

But I'll be as busy as they ! " 

Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest ; 
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest 
In diamond beads — and over the breast 

Of the quivering lake, he spread 
A coat of mail, that it need not fear 
The downward point of many a spear. 
That he hung on its margin, far and near, 

Where a rock could rear its head. 

He went to the windows of those who slept, 
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept ; 
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped. 
By the light of the morn were seen 



260 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Most beautiful things ; there were flowers and trees; 
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees ; 
There were cities with temples and towers; and these 
All pictured in silver sheen ! 

But he did one thing that was hardly fair — 
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there, 
That all had forgotten for him to prepare — 

"Now, just to set them a thinking, 
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, 
" This costly pitcher I'll burst in three ; 
And the glass of water they've left for me 

Shall ' tchick ! ' to tell them I'm drinking ! " 



THE THRICE CLOSED EYE. 

The eye was closed, and calm the breast — 
'Twas sleep — the Aveary was at rest, 
While fancy on her rainbow wings, 
Ranged through a world of new made things, 
'Mid regions pure and visions bright. 
Formed but to mock the waking sight. 
For ah ! how light does slumber sit 
On sorrow's brow — how quickly flit 
From her pale throne, when envious care 
Comes robed in clouds, and frowning, there ! 

Again — I saw the falling lid. 

And from his sight the world was hid : 

The lip was moved — the knee was bent — 

The heavy-laden spirit went. 

Bearing her burden from the dust 

Up to her only rock of trust ; 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 261 

And, childlike, on her Father's breast 
Cast off the load, and found her rest ! 
And this was prayer — 'twas faith and love 
Communing with a God above 1 

At length that eye was locked — the key 

Had opened heaven — 'twas Death ! — 'twas he 

Had sweetly quelled the mortal strife, 

And to the saint, the gates of life 

Unfolded. — On the sleeper's brow 

Lay the smooth seal of quiet, now, 

Which none could break. — The soul that here 

Dwelt with eternal things so near, 

Had burst her bonds, to soar on high, 

And left to earth the thrice-closed eye 5 



WORSHIP BY THE ROSE-TREE. 

Author of beauty, Spirit of Power — 

Thou, who didst will that the Rose should be, 
Here is the place, and this is the hour 

To feel thy presence and bow to theel 
Bright is the world with the sun's first rays ; 

Clear is the dew, on the soft, green sod 5 
The Rose-Tree blooms, while the birds sing praise, 

And earth gives glory to nature's God. 

Under this beautiful work of thine, 

The flowery boughs, that are bending o'er 

The glistening turf, to thy will divine, 
I kneel, and its Maker and mine adore. 



262 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Thou art around us. Thy robe of light 
Touches the gracefully waving tree, 

Turning to jewels the tears of night, 
And making the buds unfold to thee. 

Traced is thy name in delicate lines 

On flower and leaf, as they dress the stem. 
Thy care is seen, and thy wisdom shines 

In even the thorn, that is guarding them. 
Now, while the Rose, that has burst her cup, 

Opens her heart, and freely throws 
To me her odors, I offer up 

Thanks to the Being, who made the Rose ! 



THE WIDOW'S LULLABY. 

Ah ! slumber on, my darling boy. 
Nor send the blissful dream away. 

Which makes the smile of conscious joy 
Across thy beauteous features play. 

Thou think'st, perhaps, thy sire is here, 
And clasps thee in a fond embrace ; 

Thou know'st not 'tis thy mother's tear. 
So warm upon thy dimpled face ! 

Thou hast not learned how still and cold. 
The arms where thou believ'st thou art; 

Nor dost thou know that mine infold 
An orphan near a widow's heart 1 

And, should'st thou at this moment wake, 
I know what name thou 'dst lisp the first; 

To hear it called in vain, would make 
This aching, swelling heart to burst! 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 263 



THE EMPTY BIRD'S NEST. 

And thou, my sad, little, lonely nest, 
Has oft been sought as the peaceful rest 
Of a weary wing and a guileless breast ! 

But where is thy builder now? 
And what has become of the helpless brood, 
For which the mother with daily food. 
Came flitting so light, through the spicy wood, 

To her home on the waving bough? 

The fowler, perhaps, has hurled the dart, 
Which the parent bird has received in her heart j 
And her tender orphans are scattered apart. 

So wide, they never again 
In thy warm, soft cell of love can meet; 
And thou hast been filled with the snow and the sleet, 
By the hail and the winds have thy sides been beat, 

And drenched by the pitiless rain. 

Though great was the toil which thy building cost, 
With thy fibres so neatly coiled and crossed, 
And thy lining of down, thou art lorn and lost, 

A ruin beyond repair ! 
So I'll take thee down, as I would not see 
Such a sorrowful sight on the gay green tree ; 
And when I have torn thee, thy parts shall be. 

Like thy tenants, dispersed in air. 

Thou hast made me to think of each heart-woven tie ; 
Of the child's first home, and of her, whose eye 
Watch'd fondly o'er those, who were rear'd to die 
Where the grave of a distant shore 



264 THE LADIES WREATH 

Received to its bosom the stranger's clay ; 
For when, as thy birds, they had passed away 
'T was not to return, and the mother and they 
In time were to meet no more ! 



THE PROSTRATE PINK. 

Alas ! alas ! a silly Pink, 

To climb so fast, and never think 

How feeble was my trust ! 
I sought a high and airy throne; 
Aspired too far to stand alone ; 
And now, in lowliness, must own 

My kindred with the dust ! 

O, would my stem had snapt in twain, 
And saved me from the lingering pain 

Of being thus abased! 
'T is worse than death to lie so low, 
While all the laughing flowers must know. 
Ambition caused my overthrow, 

And brought me here disgraced ! 

My native spot is far behind ! 
Nor can I turn and hope to find 

Again my parent root. 
Where, fain my blushing head I'd screen 
Among the leaves so thick and green. 
Whence I a timid bud was seen 

In infancy to shoot. 

My beauteous form and hue, so bright, 
I thought could tempest, hail and blight 
And insect's touch defy. 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 265 

I grew in boldness — meekness fled ; 
I burst my cup, my odors shed 
With lavish haste ; my petals spread 
And courted every eye. 

I little knew how great the fault 
Myself to flatter and exalt, 

Until I found, too late. 
My head grew giddy with the height ; 
The sunbeam seemed a whirling light j 
I lost my balance — lost my sight; 

And here 1 met my fate. 

My sister flowers, take heed ! take heed ! 
Your loveliness will ever need 

Protection from the blast. 
Be cautious what your beauties court, 
Whereon you venture, how you sport : 
And if a straw is your support. 

See where you may be cast. 

Your charms are highest half-concealed; 
Your sweets are dearest when revealed 

With modesty and fear; 
And she, who quits the leafy shade 
That nature for her shelter made. 
May pine and languish, moan and fade, 

Like her who sorrows here, 

23 



266 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



THE MOON UPON THE SPIRE. 

The full-orb'd moon has reached no higher 
Than yon old church's mossy spire, 
And seems, as gliding up the air, 
She saw the fane, and, pausing there, 
Would worship, in the tranquil night. 
The Prince of peace — the Source of light, 
Where man, for God, prepared the place. 
And God, to man, unveils his face. 

Her tribute all around is seen - 
She bends, and worships like a queen ! 
Her robe of light, and beaming crown 
In silence she is casting down ; 
And, as a creature of the earth. 
She feels her lowliness of birth — 
Her weakness and inconstancy 
Before unchanging Purity. 

Pale traveller on thy lonely way, 
'Tis well thine honors thus to pay — 
To reverence that ancient pile ; 
And spread thy silver o'er the aisle. 
Which many a pious foot hath trod, 
That now is dust beneath the sod — 
Where many a sacred tear was wept. 
From eyes that long in death have slept ! 

The temple's builders, where are they? 
The worshippers ? — all past away ; 
Who came the first to offer there 
The song of praise, the heart of prayer ! 



HANNAH P. GOULD. 267 

Man's generation passes soon — 
It wanes and changes like the moon! 
He rears the perishable wall — 
But ere it crumble, he must fall ! 

And does he fall to rise no more ? 
Hath he no part to triumph o'er 
The pallid king? — no spark to save 
From darkness, ashes and the grave ? 
Thou holy place ; the answer wrought 
In thy firm walls forbids the thought I 
The spirit that establish'd thee 
Nor death nor darkness e'er shall see ! 



RECOLLECTIONS. 

I WONDER what they have done with the pine, 
Where the red-breast came to sing — 

With the maple too, where the wandering vine 
So wildly used to fling 

Its loaded arms from bough to bough ; 

And if they gather the grapes there now. 

I should like to know if they've kill'd the bee. 

And carried away the hive ; 
If they've broken the heart of my chestnut-tree. 

Or left it to still survive, 
And its laughing burs are showering down 
Their loosened treasures of shining brown. 

And there was a beautiful pond, that stood 
Like an ample azure vase ; 



268 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Or a mirror embosom'd ia wild green wood, 

For the sun to see his face. — 
Have they torn up its lilies to open a sluice 
And let that peaceful prisoner loose ? 

Perhaps they have ruin'd the ancient oak 

That gave me its ample shade ; 
And its own dead root in its bed is broke 

By the plough from its branches made. 
Nor am I sure I could find the spot 
Where I had my bower and my mossy grot. 

And shall I go back to my first loved home 

To find how all is changed, 
Alone o'er those altered scenes to roam, 

From my early self estranged? 
Shall I bend me over the glassy brook. 
No more on the face of a child to look ? 

No ! no ! for that loveliest spot upon earth 

Let memory's charm suffice 1 
But the spirit will long to the place of her birth 

From time and its change to rise — 
To soar and recover her primal bloom 
When death with his trophy has stopp'd at the tomb ! 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 269 



THE WATERFALL. 

Ye mighty waters, that have joined your forces, 
Roaring and dashing with this awful sound. 

Here are ye mingled ; but the distant sources 
Whence have ye issued, where shall they be found 1 

Who may retrace the ways that ye have taken, 
Ye streams and drops ? who separate you all, 

And find the many places ye've forsaken, 
To come and rush together down the fall? 

Through thousand, thousand paths have ye been roaming 
In earth and air, who now each other urge 

To the last point ! and then, so madly foaming. 
Leap down at once from this stupendous verge. 

Some in the lowering cloud awhile were centred, 

That in the stream beheld its sable face. 
And melted into tears, that falling entered, 

With sister waters on the sudden race. 

Others, to light that beamed upon the mountain, 
Have from the vitals of the rock been freed, 

In silver threads, that, shining down the mountain, 
Twirled off among the verdure of the mead. 

And many a flower that bowed beside the river, 
In opening beauty, ere the dew was dried. 

Shook by the breeze, has been an early giver 
Of her pure offering to the roUin"- tide. 
23* 



270 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Thus from the veins, through earth's dark bosom pouring, 

Many have flowed in tributary streams; 
Some in the bow that bent, the sun adoring, 

Have shone in colors borrowed from his beams. 

But He v/ho hokls the ocean in the hollow 
Of his strong hand, can separate you all! 

Kis searching eye the secret way will follow. 
Of every drop tliat hurries to the fall! 

We are like you, in mighty torrents mingled, 
And speeding downward to one common home ; 

Yet there's an eye that every drop hath singled, 
And marked the M'inding ways through which we come. 

Those Avho have here adored the Sun of heaven, 
And shown the world their brightness drawn from him, 

A^ain before him, though their hues be seven. 
Shall blend their beauty never to grow dim. 

We bless the promise, as we thus are tending 
Down to the tomb, that gives us hope to rise, 

Before the Power to wtiom we now are bending, 
To stand his bow of glory in the skies. 



THE WILD VIOLET. 

Violet, violet, sparkling with dew, 

Down in the meadow-laud wild where you grew, 

How did you come by the beautiful blue 

AVith which your soft petals unfold ? 
And how do you hold up vour tender, young head 
When rude, sweeping winds rush along o'er your bed, 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 271 

And dark, gloomy clouds ranging over you, shed 
Their waters so heavy and cold ? 

No one has nursed you, or watched you an hour, 
Or found you a place in the garden or bower j 
And they cannot yield me so lovely a flower, 

As here I have found at my feet ! 
Speak, my sweet violet! answer and tell 
How you have grown up and flourished so well. 
And look so contented where lowly you dwell, 

And we thus by accident meet ! 

" The same careful hand," the Violet said, 

" That holds up the firmament, holds up my head ! 

And He, who with azure the skies overspread. 

Has painted the violet blue. 
He sprinkles the stars out above me by night. 
And sends down the sunbeams at morning with light 
To make rny new coronet sparkling and bright, 

When formed of a drop of his dew [ 

" I've nought to fear from the black heavy cloud, 

Or the voice of the tempest that comes strong and loud I 

Where, born near the lowland, and far from the crowd, 

I know, and I live but for One. 
He soon forms a mantle about me to cast. 
Of long silken grass, till the rain and the blast 
And all that seemed tiireatening have harmlessly passed. 

As the clouds scud before the warm sun!" 



272 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



THE FROZEN DOVE. 

Away, aAvay from the path, silly dove. 
Where the foot, that may carelessly tread, 

Will crush thee! — what ! wilt thou not move? 
Alas ! thou art stiffened and dead ! 

Allured by the brightness of day, 

To sink 'mid the shadows of night. 
Too far from the cote didst thou stray, 

And sadly has ended thy flight ! 

For here, with the snow at thy breast, 
With thy wings folded close to thy side. 

And crouched in the semblance of rest. 
Alone, of the cold thou hast died! 

Poor bird ! thou hast pictured the fate 

Of many in life's changeful day, 
Who, trusting, have found but too late 

What smiles may be lit to betray. 

How oft for illusions that shine 

In a cold and a pitiless world. 
Benighted and palsied like thine, 

Has the wing and the spirit been furled ! 

And hearts the most tender and light. 

In their warmth, to the earth have been thrown, 

Mid the chills of adversity's night. 
To suffer and perish alone ! 



HANNAH F.GOULD. 273 



THE GROUND LAUREL. 

I LOVE thee, pretty nursling, 

Of vernal sun and rain ; 
For thou art Flora's firstlins:. 

And leadest in her train. 

When far avv^ay I found thee, 

It was an April morn; 
The chilling blast blew round thee, 

No bud had decked the thorn. 

And thou alone Avert hiding 
The mossy rocks between. 

Where, just below them gliding, 
The Merrimack was seen. 

And while my hand was brushing 
The seary leaves from thee, 

It seemed as thou wert blushing 
To be disclosed to me. 

So modest, fair, and fragrant, 
Where all was wild and rude, 

To cheer the lonely vagrant 
Who crossed thy solitude, — 

Thou didst reward ray ramble 

By shining at my feet, 
When, over brake and bramble, 

I sought thy lone retreat, — 

As some sweet flower of pleasure 
Upon our path may bloom, 

'Mid rocks and thorns that measure 
Our journey to the tomb. 



EMMA C. EMBURY. 



Mrs. Embury is a native o.f New-York, and daughter of 
Doctor Manley, a physician of eminence in that city. She 
began to write when quite young, her first effusions appear- 
ing in the periodicals of the day, over the signature of 
" lanthe." Soon after her marriage, in 1828, was publish- 
ed " Guido, — and other Poems ; — by lanthe ; " — a hand- 
some volume, which attracted considerable attention. The 
choice of subjects for the principal poems, however, was 
not fortunate, and in consequence the talents of the author- 
ess did not receive their full meed of praise. She had enter- 
ed the circle in which L. E. L., Barry Cornwall, and other 
popular English writers were then strewing with the flow- 
ers of fancy and sentiment; and no wonder that the deli- 
cate blossoms, offered by our young poetess, were consid- 
ered merely exotics, which she had trained from a foreign 
root, — beautiful as Camellias, but hardly worth the at- 
tempt to cultivate in our cold climate and sterile soil. 

It is the natural impulse of poetic and ardent minds to 
admire the genius and glory of Italy, and to turn to that 
land of bright skies and passionate hearts for themes of 
song. Mrs. Embury did but follow the then expressed 
opinion of all European critics, and the admitted acknow- 
ledgment of most Americans, that our new world afforded 
no subjects propitious for the muses. 



MRS. EMBURY. 275 

Yet surely, in a land where the wonders of nature are on 
a scale of vast and glorious magnificence which Europe 
cannot parallel ; and the heautiful and the fertile are open- 
ing their treasures on every side; and enterprise and 
change, excitement and improvement, are the elements of 
social life, — there must be poetry I Happily " Gertrude of 
Wyoming," to say nothing of what American poets have 
written, has settled the question. — We have named this 
subject, chiefly for the purpose of entreating our American 
poetesses to look into their own hearts, not into the poems 
of others, for inspiration, and to sing, in accordance with 
Nature and human life around them, 

" The beauteous scenes of our own lovely land." 

Mrs. Embury has a fertile fancy, and her versification 
flows with uncommon ease and grace ; — she has fine sen- 
sibilities, and her pictures of beauty are clear and soft as 
the summer moonbeams on a placid lake ; and in some of 
her poems there is pathos and deep tenderness. — In her 
later poems she has greatly improved her style — that is, 
she writes naturally, from her own thoughts and feelings, 
and not from a model 5 and some of her short pieces are 
very beautiful. — She is, too, a popular prose writer, many 
sketches and stories from her pen enrich our periodical lit- 
erature. And she is warmly engaged in the cause of im- 
proving her own sex, and has written on the subject of 
" Female Education" with much judgment, discrimination 
and delicacy. — If she were under a necessity of writing, 
we should not doubt that she would soon excel ; but this 
is not the case. Wealth makes smooth the path of life be- 
fore her, and herhusbandand children engross her heart — 
what she writes is, therefore, from the impulse of genius, 
or the desire to oblige her friends. 



^76 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



CLARA. 

" You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings 
Follow such creatures." Henry VIII. 

She had sprung up like a sweet wild flower, hid 
From common eyes, in some lone dell, amid 
The light and dews of heaven ; and ne'er was found 
A purer bud on earth's unhallowed ground. 
Her face was fair, but the admiring eye 
Loved less its beauty than its purity ; 
No cloud e'er darkened o'er that placid brow; 
No care e'er dimmed her bright smile's sunny glow ; 
A gentle heart that ne'er had dreamed of sin 
Or suffering, shone her dove-like eyes within ; 
And the high hope that with such calm joy stirs 
The trusting soul — the Christian's hope was hers : 
'Twas this that gave such sweetness to a mien 
So softly gay, so peaceful and serene ; 
Calm without apathy ; as woman mild, 
Yet innocent and playful as a child. 

But in her heart there was one unbreathed thought, 
With all a woman's holiest fondness fraught : 
Hers was not wild, fierce passion, such as glows 
In untamed hearts, but the calm love that grows 
Within the soul like an expanding flower, 
Breathing its perfume o'er each passing hour: 
From infancy it grew. — The graceful boy 
To whose embrace she clung with childish joy, 
And on whose breast her head had oft reposed 
When weariness her infant eyes had closed. 
Was still as dear to her young bosom now, 
Though time had written man upon his brow. 



MRS. EMBURY. 277 

There was no shame in such a love concealed 
In her heart's quiet depths, or but revealed 
By the slight tremor or the blush that came 
O'er cheek and bosom, when she heard his name. 

And did not Henry look with loving eye 
On the fair orphan, who so tenderly 
Cherished his image ? — long he vainly strove 
To check the feeling he dared not call love : 
He thought of earlier days, when she had smiled '• 

In his encircling arms, a reckless child : 
Could she forget the difference in their years, 
And listen to a lover's hopes and fears 
From one so much her elder ? — he might claim 
A sister's tenderness; but the pure flame 
Of deep and deathless love could never be 
Kindled by him in its intensity. 
Thus deemed he in his hopelessness ; but vain 
His efibrts to repress the thrilling pain 
That filled his heart, while thinking of the hour 
When he should see his loved and cherished flower 
Breathing in fragrance in another's bower. 

One balmy summer eve, with him she roved 
Through many a green-wood haunt they long had loved ; 
When, as they gazed upon the glorious west. 
Dark clouds obscured the bright sun's glowing crest; 
And through the forest trees the wind's wild cry 
Rang, as of some strong man in agony. 
A storm was coming, and while, pale with fear, 
She clung to him, his own proud castle near 
Offered them shelter — in his arms he bore 
The maiden to those halls oft trod before 
In childhood's day ; and while the tempest's strife 
Blackened the scene so late with gladness rife, 
His heart was filled with joy ; for maiden pride 
Was hushed by fear, and Clara dared to hide 
24 



278 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Her face upon his breast, while the red fire 
Flashed from dark clouds, careering in their ire 
Like angry spirits. — Ere an hour had past, 
The storm was spent, and its terrific blast 
Hushed into stillness ; but, before they turned 
To leave the spot, the restless thoughts that burned 
In Henry's breast, were breathed o'er Clara's cheek, 
And silence answered more than words could speak. 

And they were wed — oh, gentle Love, how dear 
Is thy sweet influence when thou thus dost rear 
Amid our household gods thy sacred shrine. 
And giv'st thy torch upon our hearths to shine, 
Folding in calm repose thy radiant wings, 
And gathering round our homes earth's purest, loveliest 
things ! 



THE MOTHER'S FAREWELL TO HER WED- 
DED DAUGHTER. 

Go, dearest one ; my selfish love shall never pale thy cheek ; 
Not e'en a mother's fears for thee will I in sadness speak : 
Yet how can I with coldness check the burning tears that 

start? — 
Hast thou not turned from me, to dwell within another's 

heart ? 

I think on earlier, brighter days, when first my lip was prest 
Upon thy baby brow, whilst thou lay helpless on my breast. 
In fancy still I see thine eye uplifted to my face ; 
I hear thy lisping tones, and mark with joy thy childish 
grace. 



MRS. EMBURY. 279 

E'en then I knew it would be thus ; I thought e'en in that 

hour. 
Another would its perfume steal, when I had reared the 

flower; 
And yet I will not breathe a sigh — how can I dare repine ? 
The sorrow that thy mother feels was suffered once by 

mine. 

A mother's love! — oh! thou knowest not how much of 

feeling lies 
In those sweet words; the hopes, the fears, the daily 

strength'ning ties : 
It lives ere yet the infant draws its earliest vital breath, 
And dies but when the mother's heart chills in the grasp 

of death. 

Will he, in whose fond arms thou seek'st thine all of earth- 
ly bliss, 
. E'er feel a love untiring, deep, and free from self as this ? 
Ah, no ! a husband's tenderness thy gentle heart may prove ; 
But never, never wilt thou meet again a mother's love. 

My love for thee must ever be fond as in years gone by ; 
While to thy heart I shall be like a dream of memory. 
Dearest, farewell 1 may angel hosts their vigils o'er thee 

keep, — 
How can I speak that fearful word, " farewell," and yet not 

weep? 



280 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



STANZAS. 

I LOVED thee — not because thy brow 

Was bright and beautiful as day, 
Nor that on thy sweet lip the glow 

Was joyous as yon sunny ray. 
No ; though I saw thee fairest far, 
The sun that hid each meaner star; 
Yet 'twas not this that taught me first 
The love that silent tears have nurst. 

Nor was it that thine every word 
With stores of intellect was fraught, 

With plnqupnce ea^h heart that stirred, 
With deepest feeling, holiest thought ; 

Nor thy sweet voice, whose witching spell 

Like music on my spirit fell, 

Rich as the notes the mellow horn 

Breathes when o'er moon-lit waters borne. 

But I beheld the dark'ning stain 

Of tears becloud that beaming eye. 
And marked thy bosom's secret pain 

Find utterance in the struggling sigh : 
Then too, like some neglected lute. 
My young heart's sweetest chords were mute ; 
No hand had ever touched its strings, 
To wake its blissful murmurings. — 
Was it not then just fit to be 
Roused by the touch of sympathy ? 

Yes, thine the touch that first awoke 
The hidden music of my heart; 



MRS. EMBURY. 281 

Thy hand the chain of silence broke, 

And bade it love's sweet tones impart : 
And now could even beauty wane 
Till not one noble trace remain; 
Could genius sink in dull decay, 
And wisdom cease to lend her ray ; 
Should all that I have worshipped change. 
E'en this could not my heart estrange ; 
Thou still wouldst be the first, the first 
That taught the love sad tears have nurst. 



THE THREE PAINTERS. 

First, Fancy seized the brush, and well 

Her magic hues she blent. 
As beautiful as if Heaven's bow 

Its own bright hues had lent : 
But, ere her brush was laid aside, 

Each lovely scene had fled, 
And not a trace remained to show 

The tints her hand had spread. 

Next, Feeling, from the heart's rich store, 

Her varied hue supplies ; 
And never sunset clouds could wear 

More deep and gorgeous dyes. 
" These will not fade." — E'en while she spoke. 

Her own rude touch effaced 
All that with so much anxious skill 

The pencil's art had traced. 

Then Memory came — with dark cold tints, 
And pencil rude, she drew 
24* 



282 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

The scenes of many a vanished joy. 
Which once the sad heart knew. 

I looked, in hope her dreary sketch 
Like Fancy's scenes would fade : 

I hoped in vain — fadeless her tints — 
She only paints in shade. 



MELANCHOLY. 

" There are times when melancholy thoughts oppress us, we know 
not why, and come upon us, we know not whence. In the midst of 
the festive scene, no less frequently than in the loneliness of our 
closet, our hearts thrill beneath them, even as the chords of an un- 
touched heart will vibrate to the wild sweep of the evening breeze." 

Whence comes this painful heaviness of soul. 
These dark presentiments of coming ill? 
These dreams, that spurn at reason's sage control? 
And these thick gathering phantasies that fill 
The spirit with deep fearfulness, and chill 
The heart with sudden terror? — Are they sent 
As portents of the future, to fulfil 
The dark decrees of fate, or only meant 
To sap the strength of mind — man's noblest battlement? 

We know not whence they come, nor can we tell 
Whither they flee — we only feel their power 
Withering our hearts by some mysterious spell, 
And stealing o'er us, even in the hour 
When hope and joy are brightest, till we cower 
Before these shadows, as the warrior steed 
Undaunted braves the battle's iron shower, 
And yet will quiver like a shaken reed. 
If through a moonlit wood his onward pathway lead. 



MRS. EMBURY. 283 

Oh man, how stange a mystery thou art ! 
The noblest, yet the weakest in creation ; 
Unable to subdue thine own proud heart, 
Yet swaying oft the fortunes of a nation j 
Godlike in thy high attributes and station. 
Wormlike in each low, grovelling desire j 
Yet, even in thy lowest degradation, 
Showing forth glimpses of that heavenly fire. 
Which, though earth-stained and dimjCan never quite expire. 



THE WIDOW'S WOOER. 

He woos me with those honied words 

That women love to hear, 
Those gentle flatteries that fall 

So sweet on every ear. 
He tells me that my face is fair, 

Too fair for grief to shade : 
My cheek, he says, was never meant 

In sorow's gloom to fade. 

He stands beside me, when I sing 

The songs of other days, 
And whispers, in love's thrilling tones, 

The words of heartfelt praise 5 
And often in my eyes he looks. 

Some answering love to see, — 
In vain! he there can only read 

The faith of memory. 



He little knows what thoughts awake, 

With every gentle word; 
How, by his looks and tones, the founts 

Of tenderness are stirred. 



284 THE LADIES' WREATH 

The visions of my youth return, 

Joys far too bright to last ; 
And while he speaks of future bliss ; 

I think but of the past. 

Like lamps in Eastern sepulchres, 

Amid my heart's deep gloom, 
Affection sheds its holiest light 

Upon my husband's tomb. 
And, as those lamps, if brought once more 

To upper air, grow dim. 
So my soul's love is cold and dead, 

Unless it glow for him. 



STANZAS TO A SISTER. 

" Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep, 
And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, 

And sumless wishes from affection's deep, 
To pour on broken reeds, a wasted shower ! 

And to make idols, and to find them clay, 

And to bewail that worship — therefore pray ! " 

Felicia Hemans. 

Ay, mark the strain, sweet Sister ! watch and pray — 
Wean thy young stainless heart from earthly things: 

Oh ! wait not thou till life's blest morning ray 
Only o'er withered hopes its radiance flings ; 

But give to Heaven thy sinless spirit now. 

Ere sorrow's tracery mar the placid brow. 

Gentle and pure thou art — yet is thy soul 

Fill'd with a maiden's vague and pleasant dreamsj 



MRS. EMBURY. 285 

Sweet phantasies, that mock at thought's control, 
Like atoms round thee float, in fancy's beams ; 
But trust them not, young dreamer, bid them flee — 
They have deceived all others, and will thee. 

Well can I read thy dreams — thy gentle heart, 

Already woman's in its wish to bless. 
Now longs for one, to whom it may impart ' 

Its untold wealth of hidden tenderness, 
And pants to learn the meaning of the thrill 
Which wakes when fancy stirs affection's rill. 

Thou dreamest too of happiness — the deep 
And placid joy which poet's paint so well : 

Alas ! man's passions, even when they sleep. 

Like ocean's waves are heaved with secret swellj 

And they who hear the frequent half-hushed sigh, 

Know 'tis the wailing of the storm gone by. 

Vain are all such visions ! — couldsf thou know 

The secrets of a woman's weary lot — 
Oh ! couldst thou read, upon her pride-veiled brow, 

Her wasted tenderness, her love forgot, — 
In humbleness of heart thou wouldst kneel down, 
And pray for strength to wear her victim crown. 

But thou wilt do as all have done before. 

And make thy heart for earthly gods a shrine ; 

There all affection's priceless treasures pour, 

There hope's fair flowers in votive garlands twine ; 

And thou wilt meet the recompense all must, 

Who give to mortal love their faith and trust. 



ANNA MARIA WELLS. 



Mrs. Wells was born in Gloucester, Mass. Her maid- 
en name was Foster. Her father died when she was an 
infant ; her mother married a second husband, and soon af- 
ter removed to Boston, where Anna Maria received every 
advantage of education then enjoyed by young ladies. She 
was distiaguishe J during childhood for her passionate love 
of reading and of music — these pursuits almost excluding 
the desire for what are usually considered amusements, of 
every kind. Her juvenile essays in literary composition 
are said to have evinced quite a precocity of genius ; but, 
happily, her taste was also early formed and refined, and 
hence she was a fastidious critic of her own performances. 
It was not easy, therefore, to induce her to publish her ef- 
fusions ; and she rarely did this till after her marriage, in 
18—. 

Her husband, Thomas Wells, was a man of consider- 
able literary talent and taste ; but, unfortunately for his 
family, he had small inclination for business, and great 
love for the luxuries of life. Mrs. Wells, in consequence, 
found it necessary to exert her own powers. There is no 
stimulus to the female mind so irresistible as the maternal 
affections. Let the mother find that her genius can confer 
benefits on her children, and she will be roused to efforts 
of mind, which no other earthly inducement could have 
made her attempt. 



A. M. W. 287 

In 1831, Mrs. Wells appeared before the public as au- 
thoress of " Poems and Juvenile Sketches." a volume which 
was commended, as the production of maternal love and 
female genius should be, in a community which ostensibly 
makes virtue and talent the basis of renown. She had pre- 
viously contributed to several periodicals, and her pure and 
gentle muse was always kindly welcomed. But, in our 
land, the muse, though she may command praise, can rare- 
ly command "the siller." Mrs. Wells had four children, 
— and the care of supporting and educating these, was im- 
posed on her. Like Mrs. Hemans, she had to tax her own 
powers for the means to "meeZ the exigency of the hoys' 
educatioiV'' and she found her talent for music the most 
available for her purpose. She has, for the last year or 
two, resided at the South, where her virtues, genius and 
accomplishments render her highly esteemed and beloved. 

The predominant characteristics of her poetry are ten- 
derness of feeling, and simplicity and perspicuity of lan- 
guage. Her eyes seem to " love all they look on," and her 
imagination invests every object she describes with some- 
thing that is loveable. She has the true ethereal touch of 
genius ; for she can beautify creation, and sanctify the 
household affections, and draw human hearts away from 
their worldliness, to admire images of simple beauty, and 
to lift up their yearning thoughts to "things that are un- 
seen and eternal." But she attempts no ambitious theme ; 
humble as the " Sweet-Brier Rose " that 

" Grows along 



The poor girl's pathway, by the poor man's door, " 

is her gentle muse — and, like that " little four-leaved rose," 
it may be said of her song, that 

" Its sweetness all is of our native land." 



288 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



THE WHITE HARE. 

It was the Sabbath eve — we went, 
My little girl and I, intent 

The twilight hour to pass, 
Where we might hear the waters flow, 
And scent the freighted winds that blow 

Athwart the vernal grass. 

In darker grandeur — as the day 
Stole scarce perceptibly away, — 

The purple mountain stood, — 
Wearing the young moon as a crest, — 
The sun, half sunk in the far west, 

Seemed mingling with the flood. 

The cooling dews their balm distilled; 
A holy joy our bosoms thrilled ; 

Our thoughts were free as air; 
And by one impulse moved, did we 
Together pour, instinctively. 

Our songs of gladness there. 



The green-wood waved its shade hard by. 
While thus we wove our harmony: — 

Lured by the mystic strain, 
A snow-white hare that long had been 
Peering from forth her covert green, 

Came bounding o'er the plain. 

Her beauty 'twas a joy to note, — 
The pureness of her downy coat, — 
Her wild, yet gentle, eye — 



A.M. W. 283 



The pleasure that, despite her fear, 
Had led the timid thing so near, 
To list our minstrelsy ! 

All motionless, with head inclined, 
She stood, as if her heart divined 

The impulses of ours, — 
'Till the last note had died, and then 
Turned half reluctantly again, 

Back to her green-wood bowers. 

Once more the magic sounds we tried - 
— Again the hare was seen to glide 

From out her sylvan shade ; 
Again — as joy had given her wings. 
Fleet as a bird she forward springs 

Along the dewy glade. 

Go, happy thing ! disport at will, — 
Take thy delight o'er vale and hill, 

Or rest in leafy bower : — 
The harrier may beset thy way. 
The cruel snare thy feet betray ! — 

Enjoy thy little hour ! 

We know not, and we ne'er may know 
The hidden springs of joy and woe, 

That deep within thee lie. 
The silent workings of thy heart — 
They almost seem to have a part 

With our humanity ! 
25 



284 THE LADIES' WREATH 



ELLEN OF NORTH-CAROLINA. 

PART FIRST. 

The mountain tops are touched "with light. 

The woods are misty grey ; 
The curling vapors of the night 

Are flitting fast away. 

Young Ellen sits beside her loom, 

The shuttle useless lies; — 
Her youthful brow is tinged with gloom, 

And dimmed with tears her eyes. 

" I cannot weave, — I tremble so — 

I know not what I fear 1 
Ere yonder mist shall come and go, 

I must be far from here. 

" My mother on her pillow rests ; 

My sister dreams alone ; 
There will be sorrow in their breasts, 

To wake and find me gone." 

Yet, hark ! a tramping step she hears ; — 

The tear no longer flows ; — 
A blush starts up — a smile appears. — 

" Ellen ! " — That voice she knows. 

The wicket gate is open wide. 

Before it stands the steed ; 
To claim his young and promised bride. 

Hath Edwin come with speed. 



A. M. vV. 285 

" Up, up, my love ; — the day hath wings — 

Stay not for scarf or hood." 
He grasps her hand; up light she springs — 

Away — o'er flood and wood. 

And now before the priest they stand, 

The morning sun looks on — 
The joined in heart, are joined in hand, 

And Edwin's bride is won. 



PART SECOND. 

A cot by stranger's feet unsought 
The green-wood stands beside : 

It is the home where Edwin brought 
Erewhile his stolen bride. 

Beside the hearth-flame Ellen sits, 

And feeds it listlessly ; 
She hears the winds that swell by fits : 

Her husband — where is he? 

He seeks the game. " Why comes he not ? 

The sun hath long been set — 
How cheerful was my father's cot ! 

I wish I could forget." 

She stirs the fire — the kettle sings. 

The faggot blazes fast; 
No cheer to Ellen's heart it brings, 

No thought, but of the past. 

Young Edwin loves the mountain high ; 

He lores the forest wide ; 
He loves the green-wood minstrelsy : 

Loves he his youthful bride ? 



286 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Ah Ellen ! by thy sister's side 

The morning of that day 
That made thee Edwin's willing bride 

Hadst been content to stay, 

Not now the bitter tear had flown 
Of slighted love unblessed ; 

A mother's sigh — a father's groan 
Not now disturbed thy breast. 

Love, by a parent's smile approv'd, 
Thou hadst not need to shun ; 

And Edwin might have longer lov'd 
A bride less lightly won ! 

From duty's paths who reckless stray, 
Albeit they tread on flowers, 

The sun that lights their dawning day, 
Shall set in clouds and showers. 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

Winter is cortiing on ; the forest trees 
Put ofi" their green, and leaves, that early fall, 
Already lie, crush'd by the white-winged frost. 
Others, yet waving to the breeze, themselves 
Richly array in crimson, brown and gold ; 
Gauds that foretel their ruin. 

Now the last 
Autumnal sunset bathes in yellow light 
The hills ! The pale-eyed moon and that one star 
That never doth her mistress' side forsake. 
Go wandering coldly through the clear blue sky. 



A. M. W. 287 

Old earth her yearly task accomplished hath ; 
The joyous harvest is in-gather'd, and 
The laborer rests awhile from toil and care, 
In fire-side comfort and the joys of home ! 

Winter is coming on I I feel it near, 
The winter of my life ! — Now, half afraid 
To scan the train that startled memory brings, 
Thought backward glances, and an inward voice 
Asks for the harvest of my summer time. 

In that sweet season, when all vital things 
Within my soul first woke ; when childhood smil'd 
As only childhood can, and life flowed on 
As a clear stream that dances in the sun, 
Tho' oft my wayward spirit would rebel, 
I still, with answering gentleness, gave smile 
For smile into the eyes that loved me. As 
Young thoughts expanded, in my mind there grew 
Heart-fancies, like to flowers that breathe delight; 
While hopes, like butterflies with gilded wings, 
Lay lightly on them — and false Flattery's voice 
Mellifluous sung ever in my ear! 
Did I then feel? — I did — I did —that there 
Were purer, nobler objects. Then I had 
Keen aspirations unto better things: — 
I felt what virtue was, and worshipped it. 
But in the bustle and the stir of life. 
Mid varied good and ill — the gush of joy, — 
Corroding sorrow — oh, mid these, that power 
Of holy truth that on me early fell. 
Hath it been purely kept ? and o'er my path 
With steady ray, still doth it light me on? 
My spirit — hath it known the grace of mild 
Forbearance ? And hath resignation kiss'd 
Meekly the rod — and grateful love adored 
The hand that blessed ? The powers God gave — hare they 
25* 



288 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Been nurtur'd, and, within their humble sphere. 
Diffus'd around love — joy — intelligence? 
Where are the golden stores of mind ? — the fruits 
Of intellectual and of moral strength ? 
Oh, inward voice, that must be answered, cease, 
Or help my prayers, or tell my sinking heart 
That th' All-Wise is th' All-Merciful. 



THE OLD ELM TREE. 

Each morning when my waking eyes first see, 

Through the wreathed lattice, golden day appear, 

There sits a robin on the old elm tree. 

And with such stirring music fills my ear, 

I might forget that life had pain or fear ; 

And feel again, as I was wont to do, 

When hope was young, and joy and life itself were new. 

No miser, o'er his heaps of hoarded gold, 

Nor monarch, in the plenitude of po.wer. 

Nor lover free the chaste maid to enfold 

Who ne'er hath OAvned her love 'till that blest hour. 

Nor poet couched in rocky nook or bower, 

Knoweth more heart-felt happiness than he, 

That never tiring warbler of the old elm tree. 

From even the poorest of Heaven's creatures, such 

As know no rule of impulse, we may draw 

Lessons of sweet humility, and much 

Of apt instruction in the homely law 

Of Nature ; — and the time hath been, I saw 

Nought, beautiful or mean, but had for me 

Some charm, even like the warbler of the old elm tree. 



A. M. W. 289 

And, listening to his joy-inspiring lay, 

Some meet reflections are engendered thence ; 

As, half in tears, unto myself I say, 

God, who hath given this creature sources, whence 

He such delight may gather and dispense, 

Hath in my heart joy's living fountain placed, 

More free to flow, the oftener of its waves I taste. 



THE TAMED EAGLE. 

He sat upon his humble perch, nor flew 

At my approach ; 

But as I nearer drew. 
Looked on me, as I fancied, with reproach, 

And sadness too : 

And something still his native pride proclaimed, 

Despite his wo ; 

Which, when I marked, — ashamed 
To see a noble creature brought so low, 

My heart exclaimed, 

" Where is the fire that lit thy fearless eye, 
Child of the storm. 
When from thy home on high, 

Yon craggy-breasted rock, I saw thy form 
Cleaving the sky 7 

It grieveth me to see thy spirit tamed — 
Gone out the light 
That in thine eye-ball flamed, 

When to the midday sun thy steady flight 
Was proudly aimed ! 



290 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Like a young dove forsaken, is the look 
Of thy sad eye, 
Who, in some lonely nook. 

Mourns on the willow bough her destiny, 
Beside the brook. 

Oh, let not me insult thy fallen dignity, 

Thou monarch bird. 

Gazing with vulgar eye 
Upon thy ruin ; — for my heart is stirred 

To hear thy cry ; 

Yet, something sterner in thy downward gaze 

Doth seem to lower. 

And deep disdain betrays. 
As if thou cursed man's poorly acted power, 

And scorned his praise. 



ANNA. 

With the first ray of morning light 
Her face is close to mine — her flice all smiles 
She hovers round my pillow like a sprite 
Mingling with tenderness her playful wiles. 
All the long day, 
She's at some busy play ; 
Or, tAvixt her tiny fingers 
The scissors or the needle speeds 
Or some sweet story-book she reads. 
And o'er it, serious, lingers. 

She steps like some glad creature of the air. 
As if she read her fate, and knew it fair, — 
In truth, for fate at all she hath no care. 
Yet hath she tears as well as gladness: 
A butterfly in pain, 



A. M. W. 291 

Will make her weep for sadness, 

But straight she'll smile again. 
And lately she hath pressed the couch of pain: 

Sickness hath dimmed her eye, 
And on her tender spirit lain, 

And brought her near to die. 

But like the flower 

That droops at evening hour 
And opens gaily in the morning; 

Again her quick eye glows, 

And health's fresh rose 
Her soft cheek is adorning. 

Hushed was her childish lay : 
Like some sweet bird did sickness hold her in a net; 
And when she broke away, 
And shook her wings in the bright day. 
Her recent capture she did quite forget. 
What joy again to hear her blessed voice ! 
My heart, lie still! but in thy quietness rejoice I 
Again, along the floor and on the stair. 
Coming and going, I hear her rapid feet. 
Again her little, simple, earnest prayer, 
Hear her, at bed time, in low voice repeat. 
Again, at table, and the fire beside, 
Her dear head rises, smiling with the rest. 
Again her heart and mind are open wide 
To yield and to receive — -bless and be blest. 
Pliant and teachable, and oft revealing 
Thoughts that must ripen into higher feeling. 
Oh sweet maturity ! — the gentle mood 
Raised to the intellectual and the good. 
The bright, affectionate and happy child — 
The woman, pure, intelligent and mild ! 
It must be so: — they cannot waste on air 
A mother's labor, and a mother's prayer. 



292 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



THE WHIPPOORWILL. 

The shades of eve are gathering slowly round, 
And silence hangs o'er meadow, grove and hill, 

Save one lone voice, that, with continuous sound, 
Calls thro' the deep'ning twilight — Whippoorwill. 

Faintly is heard the whispering mountain breeze ; 

Faintly the rushing brook that turned the mill : 
Hush'd is the song of birds — the hum of bees; — 

The hour is all thine own, sad Whippoorwill. 

No more the woodman's axe is heard lo fall : 
No more the ploughman sings with rustic skill, 

As if earth's echoes woke no other call. 
Again and yet again, comes Whippoorwill. 

Alas! enough before my heart was sad, 
Sweet bird ! thou mak'st it sadder, sadder still. 

Enough of mourning has my spirit had; 

I would not hear thee mourn, poor miippoorwill. 

Thoughts of my distant home upon me press. 
And thronging doubts, and fears of coming ill : 

My lone heart feels a deeper loneliness, 
Touched with that plaintive burthen — Whippoorwill 

Sing to the village lass, whose happy home 

Lies in yon quiet vale, behind the hill ; 
But, doomed far, far from all I love to roam — 

Sing not to me, oh gentle Whippoorwill. 

Loved ones ! my children ! ah they cannot hear 
My voice that calls to them. An answer shrill, 



A. M. W. 293 

A shrill, unconscious answer rises near, 
Repeating, still repeating WhippoorwilL 

Another name my lips would breathe ; — but then 
Such tender memories all my bosom fill: 

Back to my sorrowing breast it sinks again ! 
Hush, or thou'lt break my heart, sad WhippoorwilL 



LINES. 

" They remembered their Creator in the days of their youth." 

I SAW, and blessed them ! From amid the crowd 
I blessed them in the silence of my heart ; 
A troubled spirit fluttered there, and brought, 
With a sweet tumult, tears into my eyes. 

Up to God's temple, three fair boys had come, 
And in the glow of young devotion stood. 
And a pure faith, to give themselves to Him. 
Their white robes flowed around them, and their step 
Was firm as if they knew they trod upon 
The Rock of Ages. To the altar first. 
Came one with brow upraised, and look intent, 
And eyes made eloquent with serious joy. 
Another bowed his youthful head ; and but 
That his clasped hands were tremulous with awe, 
And on his cheek a flush would come and go, 
He might have seemed, so motionless he stood, 
A statue by some gifted sculptor wrought. 
The third, as he had been my own fond boy, 
Far, far away, stirred all the mother's heart 
Within me, for he seemed scarcely emerged 
From infancy, and it was sweet to see 



294 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

The innocent look of childhood blending with 

Devotion's light : a dew-steeped violet 

At early morn, touched with the sun's warm ray I 

Children ! once more I bless you : may your steps 
In pastures green be found, and by the side 
Of the still waters ; as ye early seek. 
So shall ye see the beauty of the Lord. 



TO A YOUNG MOTHER. 

Belinda ! The young blossom that doth lie 
So lightly on thy bosom, — clasp it there ; 
For on her brow an empress doth not wear, 
Nor in her jewelled zone, a gem more fair. 
Or that doth deck her more becomingly. 
Forget not then, that deep within thy flower 
The germs lie hid of lovelier, holier things: — 
Filial affection, that spontaneous springs ; 
High truth and maiden purity ; — the power 
That comes of gentleness ; — ay, and more, — 
Piety, nourished in the bosom's core ; 
These, if so cherished, shall thy blossom bear, 
And with the dews of heavenly love impearled, 
It shall adorn thee in another world* 



SARAH LOUISA P. SMITH. 



It is a melancholy pleasure to gather up the memorials 
of departed genius and worth ; and we linger over the song 
of one who passed away in her bloom and brightness from 
earth, as though it were a holy strain, because the sweet 
lyrist was so near 

" The world of peace, of joy, and perfect love." 

Mrs. Smith, formerly Miss Hickman, was born June, 1811, 
and died February, 1832, in the 21st year of her age. Her 
maternal ancestors resided many years at Newton, near 
Boston ; but Louisa was born at Detroit, while her grand- 
father, Major-general William Hull was governor of that 
territory. Mrs. Hickman returned to Newton when Lou- 
isa was in her infancy, and there devoted herself to the ed- 
ucation of her two daughters. The uncommon quickness 
of talent exhibited by Louisa, soon attracted attention from 
her instructers. She had a most wonderful memory, and 
gathered knowledge without any apparent effort — yet was 
she ever among the most active in mental pursuits. And 
the ease with which she acquired information was not 
more remarkable than the modesty which accompanied her 
superiority. She began to write when a mere child, and 
these juvenile productions were often so excellent, as to 
elicit great commendations from her family and their con- 
26 



302 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

fidential friends; yet this praise never fostered pride or 
self-confidence in the youthful poetess. She wrote from 
the spontaneous overflowing of her own heart, which 
seemed filled with thoughts of beauty, and all tender and 
sweet emotions. By the persuasion of her friends, she was 
induced to send some of her effusions, anonymously, to 
different periodicals. These were greatly admired, and 
often reprinted. Before she was fifteen her name had be- 
come known, and she was distinguished as a young lady 
of uncommon powers of intellect. She was soon an object 
of attention. Her personal appearance was very prepos- 
sessing. She had a countenance bright with the " light of 
mind," a soft and delicate complexion, a " large loving 
eye," and a head of that fine " spiritual form," which at 
once impresses the beholder with the majesty and purity 
of the mind within. 

In the autumn of 1828, Miss Hickman was married to 
Mr. S. J. Smith, then the editor of a literary periodical in 
Providence. Soon after her marriage, her husband pub- 
lished a volume of her Poems ; some collected from the 
literary journals, and others written as the book was pass- 
ing through the press. She was then but " careless seven- 
teen," as she says of herself; and it was a hazardous ex- 
periment to give a volume of poetry, which must have 
been, however highly imbued with genius, more fraught 
with the feelings and sentiments of others, than with those 
teachings of truth and nature which experience in the real 
world can only bestow. But the book was popular, and 
though she would, had she lived till the maturity of her 
powers, no doubt greatly excelled her early writings, yet, 
as the blossoms of an original and extraordinary genius, 
these poems will ever be admired. And yet it is not as an 
authoress that she is remembered and lamented by her inti- 
mate friends, or by those who had the pleasure of a brief 
personal acquaintance. " Any literary reputation that she 
might have acquired, could never have been thought of in 



LOUI SA P. SMITH. 303 

her presence ;" is the testimony of one who knew her. " It 
was the confiding sincerity of her manners, the playfulness 
of her conversation, her enthusiastic and devoted assiduity 
to those she loved, which made her presence a perpetual 
delight." — In her own home she was a model of discretion, 
cheerfulness and kindness. Her husband was always her 
lover ^ and her two little sons she cherished with that pecu- 
liar tenderness which only those endowed with the finest 
sensibilities can feel. Yet, amid all her maternal and 
household cares, her mind was rapidly gathering strength 
for high literary pursuits. She was, at the time of her de- 
cease, engaged in reviewing her early opinions on litera- 
ture, and her early productions, pointing out, and acknowl- 
edging her errors and deficiencies, with the most frank 
honesty, and preparing by study and reflection to make her 
genius the faithful interpreter of nature and the human heart. 
What she has written is marked by ease, grace, and that 
intuitive perception of the beautiful and good, which shows 
that her imagination was a blessing to herself, as well as 
a pleasure to others. Her thoughts, as they flowed out in 
her poetry, have the softness and sweetness of the tones 
of distant music; — we yield to the spell and treasure the 
remembrance as a pleasant emotion. Though it may not 
have made us wiser, it can beguile us of care. — And with 
the refinement of taste and warmth of affections which 
Mrs. Smith possessed, was united, pure, ardent and unaf- 
fected piety. The hope of immortality was to her a glori- 
ous hope ; and the benevolence which the Gospel inculcates, 
was her cherishsd feeling. Such was the poetess, who in 
her youth and loveliness has gone from among us. But we 
place her name in our Wreath — a " Forget-me-not," which, 

" Like purity's own halo light, 
Will ever smile upon the sight." 



304 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



THE HUNTER'S BRIDE. 

INDIAN TRADITION. 

The Indian Hunter left his cot, 

When the morning sun rode high, 
With springing step, for the distant spot 

Where the fleet wild deer must die ; 
And his bride, by the low-roof'd cabin door, 

Singing some joyous lay, 
That softly floated the blue hills o'er, 

As his footstep died away. 

Pokhawa — pride of the red-man's race. 

Flower of her warlike tribe ; 
She had come, his mountain hearth to grace, 

A soft-eyed, dusky bride ; 
With robe in scarlet berries prest. 

And feathers gaily green ; 
They had robb'd the wild bird of his crest, 

To deck their dark-ey'd queen. 

Away — away, his shout is heard 

Far over the distant plain ; 
But at even-fall, like the mountain bird. 

He sought his home again. 
The quick, light step thro' the forest green 

Scarce echoed in the glen ; 
And when evening's last gray light was seen. 

He stood where his home had been. 

But, alas for the hunter ! the white man's hand 
Had fearfully mark'd the spot. 



LOUISA P. SMITH. 305 

And left the blacken'd and smoking brand, 

In place of the flower-edged cot. 
And where is the "Bird" of the Indian's nest? 

They have borne her far away ! 
And the hopes, that the morning hour saw blest, 

Closed with the closing day. 

Darkness is on his brow — 

Deep darkness in his soul, 
As he sternly breath'd the vengeful vow, 

And the words in terror roll ! 
The night-wind heard and sigh'd — 

The forest branches bow'd, 
And 'twas echoed back by the mountain tide, 

In murmurs hoarse and loud ! — 
The moon went up — and pearly light 

Was shed o'er hill and tree. 
Darkness should still have veil'd a night 

That such dark deeds must see. 

A fair, young mother luU'd a child 

To its gentle evening rest ; 
On its last dim waking-look she smil'd, 

And its lip of beauty prest; 
Then watch'd for the sound of a well-known tread. 

As the still hours glided by : 
But she never met that sound again, 

Or the glance of that love-lit eye. 
The Indian Chief from his mountain home 

Had cross'd the moon-lit plain, 
And the might of that deep revenge had come, 

That was never vow'd in vain ! 
26* 



306 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



THE HUMA. 

'' A bird peculiar to the east. It is supposed to fly constantly in 
the air, and never touch the ground." 

Fly on ! nor touch thy wing, bright bird. 

Too near our shaded earth. 
Or the warbling, now so sweetly heard 

May lose its note of mirth. 
Fly on — nor seek a place of rest 

In the home of " care-worn things ; " 
'Twould dim the light of thy shining crest 

And thy brightly burnish'd wings. 
To dip them where the waters glide 
That flow from a troubled earthly tide. 

The fields of upper air are thine. 

Thy place where stars shine free: 
I would thy home, bright one, were mine, 

Above life's stormy sea. 
I would never wander, bird, like thee. 

So near this place again. 
With wing and spirit once light and free — 

They should wear no more the chain 
With which they are bound and fetter'd here, 
Forever struggling for skies more clear. 

There are many things like thee, bright bird, 

Hopes as thy plumage gay ; 
Our air is with them forever stirr'd, 

But still in air they stay. 
And happiness, like thee, fair one, 

Is ever hovering o'er, 



LOUISA P. SMITH. 307 

But rests in a land of brighter sun. 

On a waveless, peaceful shore, 
And stoops to lave her weary wings, 
Where the fount of " living waters " springs. 



THE HEART'S TREASURES. 

Know ye what things the heart holds dear 

In its hidden cells? 
'Tis never the beam of careless smiles, 
Nor riches wafted from far-ofif isles ; 
The light that cheers it is never shed 
From the jewell'd pomp of a regal head. 

Not there it dwells. 

Gay things, the loved of worldly eyes 

Enchain it not ; 
It suns its blossoms in fairer skies, 
The dewy beam of affection's eyes; 
The spell is there that can hold it fast. 
When earthly pride in its pomp is past, 

And all forgot. 

Thoughts that come from their far, dim rest, 

Woke by a smile — 
The memory sweet of a youthful hour. 
The faded hue of a cherished flower. 
Or parting tones of a far off friend, 
It loves in melody soft to blend 

With him the while. 

Know ye what things the heart holds dear? 
Its buried loves ! 



308 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Those that have wrung from it many a tear, 
Gone where the leaves never fall or sear, 
Gone to the land that is sought in prayer, 
The trace of whose step is fairest, where 
Fond memory roves. 

The sound of music at even-fall. 

Filling its springs 
With a flow of thought, and feeling sweet 
As summer winds, when at eve they meet, 
And lips that are loved, breathe forth the song, 
When day with its troubled sounds is gone — 

To these it clings. 

And nature's pleasant murmurings, 

So sweet to hear j 
Her bowers of beauty, and soft-shed gleams 
Of light and shadow on forest streams, 
Her mossy rocks and places rude, 
The charm of her breathing solitude — 

These it holds dear. 



THE STRANGER. 

It was a face where you would seek in vain for thoughts of 

rest, 
For something said that many hopes had been thro' life 

unblest ; 
Yet lingered beauty's brilliancy around her youthful form — 
As rainbows linger brightly o'er, at close of summer's 

storm. 



LOUISA P. SMITH. 309 

There was repose, deep, still repose, like that when day is 



^'-^, 



O'er, 
And the sun sends down his last lone look upon a sleeping 

shore — 
Yet there was nothing calm, to still the breast of him who 

gazed. 
Whose troubled feelings by that look of quiet grief were 

raised. 

The spmTs beauty met you there, in every line and shade. 

The light that sorrow touches not when the rosier blos- 
som's fade : 

But there dwelt not with her, sparkling looks, such as the 
careless know ; 

The very smiles in their sweetness told, life's cup had 
been of woe. 

Clouds pass the moon, nor leave their trace upon her 

silvery brow, 
And stars that have been veiled in storms, shine on as 

brightly now: 
The ocean leaves no shade of wrath upon the peaceful 

shore. 
But the fragile reed of human joy, once broken, blooms no 

more. 

You knew that suffering had been there ; too oft it leaves 

its trace. 
To dim the glorious brightness breathed around the human 

face: 
But there it left what lovelier made the face whereon it 

shone, 
And if hearts might worship aught of earth, that were an 

altar-stone. 

There's something holy in a heart so beautifully lone. 
That wanders on its shadow'd path, nor asks one soothing 
tone. 



310 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

And only tells in looks, that shade has been its outline 

here, 
That one by one the blossoms went, it had been joy to rear. 

She was a stranger — home, with all its pleasant lights was 
far. 

The deep, dark waters roll'd between her and that "guid- 
ing star;" 

Wild flowers were lying on the grave of one who held her 
dear. 

And little thought to leave her thus, a lonely "pilgrim 
here." 

I've heard her sing of a far home, and seen the tear-drops 

fall 
At thousand images of love, memory would fain recall, 
In all their loveliness of hue, but to plant a deeper thorn 
In a bosom, which a fearful weight of worldly ill had 

borne. 

'Tis a lonely sight to view the things in Heaven's own 

image made j 
Fading thus early 'neath the blight of sorrow's earthly 

shade, * 

To see the brightness and the bloom of the human brow 

o'ercast; 
And know that such things still must be, till love and death 

are past, 



LOUISA P. SMITH. 311 



TRUST IN HEAVEN. 
" For He hath said, I will never leave thee nor forsake thee." 

Yes, He hath said, whose word hath power, 

Nor may His children fear 
The clouds that on their pathway lower, 

With this high promise near. 

When He, whose arm sends o'er the deep 

The shades of falling night, 
And calls the morning sun to steep 

The isles of earth in light. 

Is o'er their path, and guarding still 

Those whom He knows are frail ; 
When gathering clouds of worldly ill, 

Cause human strength to fail. 

The spirit hath a chord that clings 

To lights that must grow dim. 
And places trust in fragile things. 

That should be placed on Him. 

But when that hold is sever'd — then. 

In sorrow's hour of night — 
When the plant has lost its earthly stem, 

He sends His own clear light. 

And in those words of truth and power 

Is the sacred promise given ; 
Which has lifted many a drooping flower 

To the still clear air of heaven. 



312 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



STANZAS. 

I WOULD not have thee deem my heart 

Unmindful of those higher joys. 
Regardless of that better part 

Which earthly passion ne'er alloys. 
I would not have thee think I live 

Within heaven's pure and blessed light, 
Nor feeling, nor affection give 

To Him who makes my pathway bright. 

I would not chain to mystic creeds 

A spirit fetterless and free ; 
The beauteous path to heaven that leads 

Is dimm'd by earthly bigotry : 
And yet, for all that earth can give. 

And all it e'er can take away, 
I would not have that spirit rove 

One moment from its heavenward way. 

I would not that my heart were cold 

And void of gratitude to Him, 
Who makes those blessings to unfold, 

Which by our waywardness grow dim. 
I would not lose the cherished trust 

Of things within the world to come, — 
The thoughts, that when their joys are dust, 

The weary have a peaceful home. 

For I have left the dearly lov'd, 

The home, the hopes of other years, 

And early in its pathway prov'd 
Life's rainbow hues were formed of tears. 



LOUISA P. SMITH. 313 

I shall not meet them here again, 

Those lov'd and lost, and cherish'd ones, 

Bright links in young affection's chain. 
In memory's sky unsetting suns. 

But perfect in the world above, 

Through suffering, wo, and trial here, 
Shall glow the undiminished love 

Which clouds and distance failed to sere ; 
But I have lingered all too long. 

Thy kind remembrance to engage, 
And woven but a mournful song. 

Wherewith to dim thy page. 



I WOULD NEVER KNEEL. 

I WOULD never kneel at a gilded shrine 

To worship the idol-gold, 
I would never fetter this heart of mine 

As a thing for fortune sold. 
There are haughty steps, that would walk the globe, 

O'er necks of humbler ones, 
I would scorn to bow to their jewell'd robe, 

Or the beam of their coin-lit suns. 
But I'd bow to the light that God has given, 

The nobler light of mmd, 
The only light save that of Heav'n 

That should free-will homage find. 
27 



LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON.^ 



The premature death of Miss Davidson is another warn- 
ing to those who are rejoicing in the bright promise of early 
genius, how soon the frost may wither their hopes. Like 
the " Flower-of-an-hour " was her brief blossoming ; and 
though the memorials of her extraordinary talents remain, 
yet we feel these are very inadequate to convey the im- 
pression which her living presence must have excited. — 
Who can imagine truly what the fruit would have been by 
merely e:xamining a petal from the half-opened bud? 

Lucretia Maria, second daughter of Dr. Oliver and Mar- 
garet Davidson, was born at Plattsburgh, on Lake Cham- 
plain, Sept. 27th, 1808. Her parents were then in indigent 
circumstances, and to add to their troubles, her mother was 
often sickly. Under such circumstances, the little Lucretia 
would not be likely to owe her precocity to a forced edu- 
cation. The manifestations of intellectual activity were 
apparent in the infant, we may say ; for at four years old 
she would retire by herself to pore over her books, and 
draw pictures of animals, and soon illustrated these rude 
drawings by poetry. Her first specimens of writing were 

* A selection from her MS. was made after her decease, and a 
volume published — "Amir Khan and other Poems" — with a 
" Biographical Sketch." By Samuel F. B. Morse. 



LUCRETIA DAVIDSON. 315 

imitations of printed letters, but she was very much dis- 
tressed when these were discovered, and immediately de- 
stroyed them. 

The first poem of hers which has been preserved, was 
written when she was nine years old, — It was an elegy 
on a Robin, killed in the attempt to rear it. — This piece 
was not inserted in her works. The earliest of her poems 
which has been printed was written at eleven years old. — 
Her parents were much gratified by her talents, and gave 
her all the indulgence in their power, which was only time 
for reading such books as she could obtain by borrowing ; 
as they could afford no money to buy books, or to pay for 
her instruction. Before she was twelve years old, she had 
read most of the standard English poets — much of His- 
tory, both sacred and profane — Shakspeare's Kotzebue's 
and Goldsmith's dramatic works, and many of the popular 
novels and romances of the day. Of the latter, however, 
she was not an indiscriminate reader — many of those 
weak and worthless productions, which are the 61ite of the 
circulating libraries, this child, after reading a few pages, 
would throw aside in disgust. Would that all young 
ladies possessed her delicate taste and discriminating 
judgment! 

When Lucretia Avas about twelve years old, a gentleman, 
who had heard of her genius and seen some of her verses, 
sent her a complimentary note, enclosing twenty dollars. 
Her first exclamation was — " Oh, now I shall buy me some 
books!" — But her dear mother was lying ill — the little 
girl looked towards the sick bed — tears gushed to her eyes, 
and putting the bill into her father's hand, she said — 
"Take it, father; it will buy many comforts for mother; 
I can do without books." 

It is no wonder that her parents should feel the deepest 
affection for such a good and gifted child. Yet there will 
always be found officious, meddling persons, narrow-mind- 
ed, if not envious, who are always prophesying evil on any 



316 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

pursuits in which they or their's cannot compete. These 
meddlers advised that she should be deprived of pen, ink, 
and paper, and rigorously confined to domestic pursuits. 
Her parents were too kind and Avise to follow this coun- 
sel ; but Lucretia, by some means, learned that such had 
been given. Without a murmur she resolved to submit to 
this trial; and she faithfully adhered to the resolution. 
She told no one of her intention or feelings, but gave up 
her writing and reading, and for several months devoted 
herself entirely to household business. Her mother was 
ill at the time, and did not notice the change in Lucretia's 
pursuits, till she saw the poor girl was growing emaciated, 
and a deep dejection was settled on her countenance; — 
She said to her one day, — "Lucretia — it is a longtime 
since you have written any thing." — The sweet child 
burst into tears, and replied — " O mother, I have given 
that up long ago." Her mother then drew from her the 
reasons which had inlluenced her to relinquish writing — 
namely, the opinions she had heard expressed that it was 
wrong for her to indulge in mental pursuits, and the feeling 
that she ought to do all in her power to lighten the cares 
of her parents. — Mrs. Davidson %vas a good, sensible wo- 
man ; with equal discretion and tenderness she counselled 
her daughter to take a middle course, resume her studies, 
but divide her time between these darling pursuits and the 
duties of the household. Lucretia from thenceforth occa- 
sionally resumed her pen, and soon regained her quiet 
serenity and usual health. 

Her love of knowledge grew with her growth, and 
strengthened by every accession of thought. "Oh!" said 
she one day to her mother — " Oh I that I only possessed 
half the means for improvement which I see others slight- 
ing ! I should be the happiest of the happy ! " — At another 
lime she exclaimed — " How much there is yet to learn ! 
— If I could only grasp it at once ! " 

This passionate desire for instruction was at length 



LUCRETIA DAVIDSON. 317 

gratified. When she was about sixteen, a gentleman, a 
stranger at Plattsburgh, saw, by accident, some of her 
poems, and learned her history. With the prompt and 
warm generosity of a noble mind, he immediately proposed 
to place her at school, and give her every advantage for 
which she had so ardently longed. Her joy on learning 
this good fortune was almost overwhelming. She was, as 
soon as possible, placed at the Troy Female Seminary, 
then, as now under the care of Mrs. EmmaWillard. She 
was there at the fountain for which she had so long thirst- 
ed, and her spiritual eagerness could not be restrained. 
"On her entering the Seminary," says the Principal, "she 
at once surprised us by the brilliancy and pathos of her 
compositions — she evinced a most exquisite sense of the 
beautiful in the productions of her pencil; always giving 
to whatever she attempted to copy, certain peculiar and 
original touches which marked the liveliness of her con- 
ceptions, and the power of her genius to embody those con- 
ceptions. — But from studies which required calm and 
steady investigation, efforts of memory, judgment and con- 
secutive thinking, her mind seemed to shrink. She had 
no confidence in herself, and appeared to regard with dis- 
may any requisitions of this nature." — In truth, she had 
so long indulged in solitary musings, and her sensibility 
had become so exquisite, heightened and refined as it had 
been by her vivid imagination, that she was dismayed, ag- 
onized, even, with the feeling of responsibility, which her 
public examination involved. — She was greatly beloved 
and tenderly cherished by her teachers; but it is probable 
that the excitement of the new situation in which she was 
placed, and the new studies she had to pursue, operated 
fatally on her constitution. — She was, during the vacation, 
taken with an illness, which left her feeble and very ner- 
vous. When she recovered she was placed at Albany, at 
the school of Miss Gilbert — but there she was soon attack- 
ed by severe disease. She partially recovered, and was 
27* 



318 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

removoil to hex home, ■vvliore sho ixnuhuillv declined till 
death released her pure and exalted mind tVom its prison- 
house of clay. She died Aui::ust 27th, 1825 — before she 
had completed her seventeenth year. In person she was 
exceedinii^ly beautiful. Her forehead was liiiih, open and 
fair as infancy — her eyes larafe, dark, and of that soft 
beamins: expression which shows the soul in the glance — 
her features Avere fine and symmetrical, and her complex- 
ion brilliant, especially when the least excitement moved 
her feelings. But the prevailing expression of her face 
was melancholy. Her beauty, as well as her mental en- 
dowments, made her tlie object o\' much regard ; but she 
shrunk from observation — any particular attention always 
seemed to give her pain; so exquisite wa> her modesty. 
In truth, her soul Avas too delicate for this '*cold \\oi\d ol 
storms and clouds." Iler imauiuation never revelled in 
the ''gairishness oi' joy:*' — a pensive, meditative mood 
w^as the natural tone of her mind. The adverse circum- 
stances by which she was surrounded, no doubt deepened 
this seriousness, till it became almost morbid melancholy 
— but no external advantages of tortnne would have given 
to her disposition the buoyant cheerfulness which charac- 
terized Louisa P. Smith. In their genius and its precocity 
of development there is a great similarity ; in their consti- 
tutional temperaments they were utterly unlike — and this 
made the one //.l//''^'r(). the other IF I^r)i}<t'/oso in thought. 
The writings of Miss Davidson were astonishingly vol- 
uminous. — She had destroyed many of her poems, her 
mother says, at least one-third — yet those remaining 
amount to two hitudreil and sevenly-cight pieces. There 
are among them live regular poems of several cantos each, 
twenty-four school exercises, three untinished romances, a 
complete tragedy, written at thirteen years of age, and 
about forty letters, to hermotlier. Her poetry is marked by 
strong imaginative powers, and the sentiment of sad fore- 
bodings. — These dark visions, though they tinged all her 



LUCRETIA DAVIDSON. 319 

earthly horizon, were not permitted to cloud her hope of 
heaven. She died calmly, relying on the merits of our 
Lord and Saviour for salvation. The last word she spoke 
was the name of the gentleman who had so kindly assisted 
her. And if his name were known, often would it be spoken, 
for his generosity to this humble, but highly gifted daugh- 
ter of song, will make his deed of charily a sacred remem- 
brance to all who love genius, and sympathise with the 
suffering. 



TO A FRIEND. 

And thou hast marked in childhood's hour 
The fearless boundings of my breast. 

When fresh as summer's opening flower, 
I freely frolic k'd andwas blest. 

Oh say, ivas not this eye more bright ? 

Were not these lips more wont to smile ? 
Methiuk.s that then my heart was light, 

And I a fearless, joyous child. 

And lliou didst mark me gay and wild, 
My careless, reckless laugh of mirth; 

The simple pleasures of a child, 
The holiday of man on earth. 

Then thou hast seen me in that hour, 
Wnen every nerve of life was new. 

When pleasures fann'd youth's infant flower, 
And Kope her witcheries round it threv/. 

That hour is fading; it hath flud; 

And I am left in darkness now, 
A wand'rer towards a lowly bed, 

The grave, that home of all below. 



320, THE LADIES WREATH. 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

To Miss E. C— Composed on a blank leaf of her Paley, during 
recitation 

I'm thy guardian angel, sweet maid, and I rest 
In mine own chosen temple, thy innocent breast ; 
At midnight I steal from my sacred retreat, 
When the chords of thy heart in soft unison beat. 

When thy bright eye is closed, when thy dark tresses flow 
In beautiful wreaths o'er thy pillow of snow, 

then I watch o'er thee, all pure as thou art, 
And listen to music which steals from thy heart. 

Thy smile is the sunshine which gladdens my soul. 
My tempest the clouds, which around thee miiy roll ; 

1 feast my light form on thy rapture-breathed sighs, 
And drink at the fount of those beautiful eyes. 

The thoughts of thy heart are recorded by me; 

There are some which, half-breathed, half-acknowledged 

by thee. 
Steal sweetly and silently o'er thy pure breast. 
Just ruffling its calmness, then murm'ring to rest. 

Like a breeze o'er the lake, when it breathlessly lies, 
With its own mimic mountains, and star-spangled skies, 
I stretch my light pinions around thee when sleeping. 
To guard thee from spirits of sorrow and weeping. 

I breathe o'er thy slumbers sweet dreams of delight. 
Till you wake but to sigh for the visions of night ; 
Then remember, Avherever your pathway may lie. 
Be it clouded with sorrow, or brilliant with joy, 



LUCRETIA DAVIDSON. 321 

My spirit shall watch thee, wherever thou art, 
My incense shall rise from the throne of thy heart. 
Farewell! for the shadows of evening are fled, 
And the young rays of morning are wreathed round my 
head. 



TO A STAR. 

Thou brightly glittering Star of Even — 

Thou gem upon the brov/ of heaven ! 

Oh! were this fluttering spirit free, 

How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee ! 

How calmly, brightly dost thou shine, 
Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine ; 
Sure the fair world which thou may'st boast 
Was never ransomed — never lost. 

There, beings pure as heaven's own air, 
Their hopes, their joys, together share; 
While hovering angels touch the string, 
And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. 

There cloudless days and brilliant nights, 
Illumed by heaven's refulgent lights; 
There, seasons, years, unnoticed roll, 
And unregretted by the soul. 

Thou little sparkling Star of Even — 
Thou gem upon an azure heaven! 
How swiftly will I soar to thee. 
When this imprisoned soul is free ! 



322 THE LADIES' WREATH 



FEATS OF DEATH. 

I HAVE passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night ; 
I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad light ; 
I have paused o'er the bower whjere the infant lay sleeping. 
And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping. 

Mv pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night 
Which Avithers and moulders the flower in its light, 
Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow. 
And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low : 
I cuU'd the fair bud, as it danced in its mirth. 
And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth. 

I paused o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy 
Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high j 
The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight, 
And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night. 

I stay not to gather the lone one to earth, 
I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth; 
But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave, 
I stop not to pity — I stay not to save. 

I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there ; 
It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair ! 
The deep purple fountain seemed melting away. 
And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play : 
She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me, 
I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free. 

The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along, 
With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song j 



LUCRETIA DAVIDSON. 323 

The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love, 
And sweet, and half-sad were the numbers he wove. 

I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung; 

O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 'twas recklessly hung ; 

The minstrel was not ! and I passed on alone, 

O'er the newly-raised turf, and the rudely-carved stone. 



STANZAS. 



Addressed to her Sister, requesting her to sing " Moore's Fare- 
ell to his Haro." 



well to his Harp." 



When evenmg spreads her shades around, 
And darkness fills the arch of heaven ; 

When not a murmur, not a sound 
To Fancy's sportive ear is given ; 

When the broad crb of heaven is bright. 
And looks around with golden eye ; 

When Nature, softened by her light. 
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie; — 

Then, when our thoughts are raised above 
This world, and all this world can give. 

Oh, sister ! sin^ the song I love, 
And tears of gratitude receive. 

The song which thrills my bosom's core, 
And, hovering, trembles half afraid. 

Oh, sister ! sing the song once more 
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made. 



324 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

'T were almost sacrilege to sing 
Those notes amid the glare of day j 

Notes borne by angels' purest wing, 
And wafted by their breath away. 

When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed, 
Should'st thou still linger here above. 

Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, 
And, sister, sing the song I love ? 



FRAGMENT.* 

There is a something which I dread, — 

It is a dark a fearful thing ; 
It steals along with withering tread, 

Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing. 

That thought comes o'er me in the hour 
Of grief, of sickness or of sadness ; 

'T is not the dread of death — 't is more, 
It is the dread of madness! 

Oh I may these throbbing pulses pause. 
Forgetful of their feverish course ; 

May this hot brain, which burning glows 
With all a fiery whirlpool's force, 

Be cold, and motionless, and still, 

A tenant of its lowly bed; 
But let not dark delirium steal — 

* * * * ic 4: 



♦ These lines are the last she ever wrote ; they were left thus un- 
finished. 



FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 



Mrs. Osgood, formerly Miss Locke, has only been known 
to the public as a writer, by her signature of " Florence." 
The beauty and merit of her poetry, however, fully entitle 
her to a place in our Wreath. Her genius, like the sweet 
" Lily of the Valley," sung by Percival, has found a " green 
spot," in which to bloom in the midst of life's busy throng. — 

"The din of the city disturb'd it not, 
For the spirit that shades the quiet cot, 
With its wings of love was there." 

Frances Locke is sister, by the maternal side, of Anna 
Maria Wells : she was born in Boston, where she has con- 
stantly resided, till about a year since, when she married 
Mr. Osgood, a young artist of much promise, and imme- 
diately accompanied her husband to Europe. They are 
now settled in London, where Mr. Osgood has, we learn, 
been very kindly encouraged in portrait painting, (the branch 
of art to which he chiefly devotes himself,) by many noble 
and eminent patrons. Mrs. Osgood has also found friends, 
as one so amiable and gifted could hardly fail to do, who 
are fostering her genius with the "warm breath" of praise, 
so very pleasant, when given by those we honor and love. 
Several of her articles have already appeared in the London 
periodicals, and she is receiving that attention from per- 
28 



326 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

sons of taste and influence, which, we doubt not, will stim» 
ulate her to vigorous application — all that is wanting to in* 
sure her success and celebrity. 

The first poems of " Florence " were printed in the "Ju- 
venile Miscellany," when she could not have been more 
than sixteen. These early effusions were marked by the 
same warmth of fancy and elegance of expression, which 
have distinguished all she has written. Since that period, 
she has contributed to several periodicals, chiefly to the 
American Ladies' Magazine, from which the specimens 
now given are mostly selected. Her poems have never 
been collected, though they would make a volume very 
creditable to one of her age. It is, however, better that she 
should wait till the changes of life shall awaken more of 
those strong sympathies of the soul, which vivify and ele- 
vate the genius of woman. As yet, she has never affected 
a lofty theme — but takes whatever the passing moment 
suggests; and generally her heart turns to the dear, cher- 
ished affections of home and friends. She is, moreover, of 
a cheerful temperament, and /(/e, love and happiness, are 
to her synonymous terms. Hence the deepest tones of her 
genius have never yet beeen sounded : it is only actual 
suffering-, that will teach a sanguine disposition that there 
is light in the darkness of affliction, and inspire the muse 
to picture " beauty for ashes," and describe the "joy of 
grief," till the soul feels its own immortality made surer, 
calmer, happier, holier from the doubts, tossings, sorrows, 
and imperfections of this transitory world. This high 
moral strain of poetry she has as yet scarcely attempted, 
because her thoughts have never been turned, by her own 
feelings, to such subjects. 

She writes from her feelings, and her common mood of 
mind is poetical ; hence there is a naturalness and simple 
grace in her metaphors and diction which are original and 
very pleasing. She composes with great rapidity, bestow- 
ing, apparently, no more effort on a poem, than though she 



FLORENCE. 327 

were scribbling prose. This remarkable command of lan- 
guage, united, as it is, with clear ideas, vivid imagination, 
and an intuitive feeling of the harmonious, mark her as 
one destined, if her life is prolonged, to occupy a bright 
place in our literature. She is still in the bloom of youth, 
and has scarcely begun to appreciate her own powers, or to 
cultivate them by careful study and critical revision. 



THE BLIND GIRL. 

" I thought it slept." 

My brow was burning for holier air, 

The blessed mountain breeze ; 
My heart was away, in the valleys fair, 

With the woodland streams and trees ; 
Andl longed to be in a tranquil spot, 

Shaded and pleasant and still, 
Where, alone with the flowers, and noticed not, 

I could follow my wayward will : 
And so, in sadness, I went away, 

From the city's peopled street. 
And I found the sunlight and stream, at play. 

Where the breathing blossoms meet 

Soft as the spirit's parting smile, 

Lighting some young, blue eye to death ; 
Bright as that spirit's pinions while 

They rise upon the expiring breath. 
And leave their radiance trembling there. 
On lip and cheek and forehead fair, 
Our sungod sends his farewell ray. 
Sweet Wilda ! where thy waters play ! 



328 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

And, while his glittering wings unclose, 

In glory o'er thy calm repose, 

One i)itying niouiettl rests above, 

To light thee with his glance of love; 

Then, soft receding, tloats in light. 

Away, beyond the mountain height. 

I found the stream — the woodland stream 

I lingered by its golden gleam, 

While softly, in the luminous air, 

The dream-like clouds were lloating fair, 

And all serene as seraph's eye, 

The waters went in beauty by. 

I laid me on the pleasant green, — 

The graceful slope that bends between, 

In one sweet sunny nook of love. 

The fir-trees of the darkling grove. 



*t> &' 



Oh ! 'tis a gem, that lone retreat ! 

A fairy gift, by nature wrought, 
To lay at laughing summer's feet, — 

An emerald with her bright smile fraught. 
An emerald, set in sapphire light, 
And hidden in the woods from sight ! 
Fair sunmier hung her prize, above, 
And lent it light, from looks of love. 
And press'd it with her fondling hand, 
And bless'd it with her breezes bland, 
Till, smiling back that radiant gaze, 
The wave its fairy music plays. 
And gaily, from the grove, are heard 
The warblings of the woodland bird. 
At times she weeps her softest tears, 

When dim decay is near her treasure ; 
And then, again, in joy appears. 

Her fond and sunlight smile of pleasure : 



FLORENCE. 329 

While born in beauty 'neath her eyes, 
And wreathed around, on shrub and tree, 

She sees her forest-blossoms rise, 
And lists her forest-melody. 

A lonely cottage rises there. 

Against the trees in fair relief ; 
Its smoke is blending with the air, 

As melts in joy, the cloud of grief : 
Behind, the shadowy elms wave o'er it. 
And all sweet flowers are bright before it. 
I wander'd to the garden's gate. 
And thought at first 'twas desolate; 
But there half hid, with eyelids closed, 
A sweet unconscious child reposed, — 
A fairy girl, — her soft brown hair 
Lay floating from her forehead fair. 
Among the flowers, that in her play. 
She'd careless thrown around her there ; 
Some on her white dress blooming lay ; 
Some in her tresses, and a few 
Crush'd buds of blushing, rosy hue. 
Within her little hand were press'd. 
I thought the fair thing was at rest. 
And almost feared her sleep to break, 
I thought to see her start and wake. 
And lift to me, in wild surprise. 
The sweet blue light of laughing eyes : — 
Ah no ! tho' close I went to her, 
Those soft-veined eyelids did not stir! 
But ofl'ering, — with a motion glad. 

And smile of gay dreams telling, 
As in deep sleep, — her rosebuds bright, — 
In accents, — Oh ! so sweetly sad. 
They mock'd her smile's unclouded light — 

— She said,— " What are they, Ellen ? " 
28* 



330 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

I knelt beside the gentle child. 
And wondered at that slumber mild. 
" It is not Ellen," — whisper'd I, 
She did not start, — she did not cry ; 
She put her soft hand on my face. 
With all a child's unconscious grace, 
And slowly moved it, as if thought, 
Deeply, within her dreaming wrought. 
I spoke, — I thought to win the while 
Her eyes to see my soothing smile ; 
Ah ! still those lashes met the cheek! 
Still closed her lids in slumber meek. 
" Have you ne'er seen a rose before? " — 
— A shadow fell her forehead o'er, — 

She lifted her soft face to me. 
While tears from those shut eyelids came. 
And half in sweetness, half in blame, 

She said — " / cannot see ! " 



MY MOTHER'S SIGH. 

I'vE/elt it oft in childhood's hour — 
The magic of a mother's sigh: 

I've yielded to its gentle power, 
With heart subdued, and drooping eye. 

When full of glee, a wayward child, 
I've stolen from my task away, 

That sound amid the frolic wild 
Would rouse and check my careless play. 

I've read, with rapt and earnest look. 
O'er pages filled with wild romance, — 



FLORENCE. 331 

My mother sighed ! — I closed the book, 
And broke at once the idle trance. 



If passion flushed my youthful cheek, 
And pride and gloom were on my brow, 

When others' frowns were vain and weak 
Her sigh could bid my spirit bow. 



If, checked in Folly's wayward whim, 
I've turnied away with laughing eyes, — 

My mother^s sigh that smile could dim, 
And tears, repentant tears, would rise. — 

My dream has fled — and wearying care 
Has silenced Folly's childish strain; 

The thoughtless mirth that revelled there 
May never, never come again ! 

But still I feel that holy power, 

It thrills my heart and fills my eye 

With tears, as when, in "childhood's hour, 
I yielded to my mother'' s sigh. 



V 



STANZAS. 

When the warm blessed spirit that lightens the sky, 
Hath darkened his glory, and furled up his wing. 

And nature forgets the sweet smile, that her eye 
Was wont on that radiant spirit to fling, — 

I turn from the world Avithout, calm and content, 
And find in my own heart a day-dream as bright; 

And dearer, far dearer than that which is lent 
To illumine creation with glory and light. 



332 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

There's a thought in that heart it can never forget — 
There's a ray in that heart that will lighten my doom ; 

Through many a sorrow they linger there yet, 
Andj holy and beautiful, smile through the gloom. 

But they say that the garland Affection is wreathing, 
Will fade ere the morrow has wakened its bloom — 

They say the wild blossoms where young Hope is breathing, 
Their beauty, their fragrance are all for the tomb. 

They tell me the vision of Bliss that is "glinting," 
My heart's star of promise in gloom will decline ; 

And the far scene that Fancy, the fairy, is tinting, 
Will lose all its sunny glow ere it is mine. 

Oh ! if Love and Life be but a fairy illusion. 
And the cold future bright but in Fancy's young eye, 

Still, still let me live in the dreamy illusion. 
And, true and unchanging, hope on till I die ! 



TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

I WOULD not tell thee, for the world, 
Thy early love will change ; 

I would not see thy sweet lip curled 
In scorn of words so strange. 

I would not bid thy smiles away. 
Nor quell that speaking blush ; 

For happy spirits lend the ray. 
And timid thoughts the flush r 

Yet, love is but a dangerous guest 
For hearts so young as thine ; 



FLORENCE. 333 

Where youth's unshadowed joy should rest, 
Life's spring-time fancies shine. 

Too soon — oh! all too soon — would come, 

In later years, the spell, — 
Touching, with changing hues, the path, 

Where once but sun-light fell. — 

Then, sweetest, leave the wildering dream, 

Till Time has nerved thy heart 
To brook the fitful cloud and gleam, 

Which must in love have part. 

Ah I life has many a blessed hour, 

That passion never knows ; 
And youth may gather many a flower, 

Beside the blushing rose. 



Turn to thy books, my gentle girl ! — 
They will not dim thine eyes ; 

That hair will all as richly curl. 
That blush as brightly rise. — 

Turn to thy friends ! A smile as fond, 

On friendship's lip may be, 
And breathing from a heart as warm 

As love can offer thee. — 

Turn to thy home ! — Affection wreathes 

Her dearest garland there ; 
And more than all, a mother breathes 

For thee — for thee, her prayer ! 

Ay I life has many a hallowed hour. 

That passion never knows ; 
And youth may often find a flower, 

More precious than the Rose.* 

* The flower of Love. 



334 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



LINES 

On a picture of a young girl weighing Cupid and a butterfly : — 
the winged boy rises, as he should, and the motto beneath is, " Love 
is the lightest." 

" Love the Lightest ! '^ 

Silly maiden ! weigh them not ! 

Butterflies are earthly things : 
Thou forget'st their lowly lot, 

Gazing on their glittering wings. 

Find a star-beam from the sky — 

Find a glow-worm in the grass — 
Will the earth-lamp rise on high ? 

Will that heaven-ray downward pass ? 

Love — ethereal, holy love, 

Light, perchance, and proud, and free, 

Maiden — see ! it soars above 
Worldly pride and vanity I 

Drooping to its native earth. 

Sinks the gilded insect-fly ; 
Love, of holier, heavenlier birth. 

Rises towards his home on high. 

Maiden, throw the scales away ! 

Never weigh poor Love again ! 
Even the doubt has dimmed the ray 

On his pinions with its stain I 



FLORENCE. 335 



See ! he lifts his wondering eye, 
Half reproachfully to thee — 

" Measured with a butterfly ! " 
rd try my wings, if I were he. 



THE STAR OF PROMISE. 

When kneeling sages saw of yore 

Their orb of promise rise for them. 
How Learning's lamp grew dim, before 

The heaven-born Star of Bethlehem, — 
How falter'd Wisdom's haughty tone, 

When, led by God's exulting choir. 
His radiant herald glided on 

The darkling heathen's beacon-fire ! 

When sweet, from many an angel voice. 

While rung the viewless harps of heaven, 
He heard the song of love — " Rejoice, 

For peace on earth and sins forgiven ! " 
The Chaldean flung his scroll aside. 

The Arab left his desert-tent — 
Their hope, their trust — that silver guide — 

Till low at Mary's feet they bent. 

Ay ! Asia's wisest knelt around, 

Forgetting Fame's too earthly dream. 
While, bright upon ihe hallowed ground. 

Their golden gifts — a mockery — gleam. 
There vainly too, their censers breathed ; 

Oh! what were incense — gems^ — to Him, 
Around whose brow a glory wreathed, 

That made their sun-god's splendor dim! 

To Him o'er whose blest spirit came 
The fragrance of celestial flowers. 



336 THE LADIES' WREATH, 

And light from countless wings of flame 
That flashed thro' heaven's resplendent bowers !- 

To "kneeling Faith's" devoted eye, 
It shines — that " star of promise " now, 

Fair, as when, far in Asia's sky. 
It lit her sage's lifted brow. 

No sparkling treasure we may bring, 

Nor "gift of gold," nor jewel-stone: 
The censer's sweets we may not fling. 

For incense round our Saviour's throne: 
But when, o'er sorrow's clouded view, 

That planet rises to our prayer. 
We, where it leads, may follow too. 

And lay a contrite spirit there ! 



A FRAGMENT. 



/ 



Oh, do believe me, Julian ! woman's heart, — 
A true, proud, loving, woman's, ne'er was won, 
By that must worthless bubble. Flattery. 
Your thoughtless words betray their own light falsehood. 
For we are very sure, when lips o'er praise. 
The mind must undervalue our true worth, 
And wrong our intellect, — deeming we try, 
With child-like eagerness and love, to catch 
Your bribe for hearts, — your rainbow-lit illusion. 
Why, 'tis a heartless insult! that doth call 
For all a woman's spirit to resist I — 
Now — in our injured cause, — I dare ye all! — 
And fling our gauntlet proudly at your feet; — 
But once o'erstep Truth's pure and holy limit, 
And from that hour, your eloquence is lost — 
Your worship scorned — your sweetest whispers vain. 
As the fair eastern fruit that looks so rich. 
And tempts the lip, with its bright nothingness. 



ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. 



Mrs. Dinnies, hitherto known as a poetess under the 
name of " Moina," was born in Georgetown, South Carolina. 
Her father, Judge Shackleford, an eminent lawyer in that 
state, removed to Charleston, when Anna was a child. 
She was there educated at the Female Seminary of the 
Miss Ramsays', daughters of the celebrated Doctor David 
Ramsay. Miss Shackleford gave early promise of genius, 
and of a poetical talent, which she inherited from her fa- 
ther. He was a distinguished scholar, and his influence in 
forming the literary taste of his daughter was very happily 
and effectually exerted. 

In May, 1830, Miss Shackleford married John C. Dinnies, 
a gentleman of New-York, but then settled at St. Louis, 
Missouri, where Mrs. Dinnies has ever since resided. — 
Her published poetry has chiefly been written since her 
marriage, and breathes the tender, trusting and devoted 
feeling of conjugal love, in a manner which is very flatter- 
ing to her husband. He must be worthy of esteem, to en- 
gross so deeply the imagination and heart of one familiar 
in domestic life. — The circumstances attending their 
union were romantic, and it would seem that, in this case, 
the romance has proved a happy reality. — They became 
engaged in a literary correspondence, which continued 
more than four years. The result was their marriage, 
29 



338 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

though they never met till one week before their nuptials. 
The contract was made long before, entered into solely 
from the sympathy and congeniality of mind and taste. 
That in their estimate of each other they have not been dis- 
appointed, we may infer from the tone of her songs ; for 
there cannot be domestic contidence, such as tliese pourtray, 
unless both are happy. We have ventured to give this 
pleasant picture of Love and the Muse at home, as a hint 
to our young men and maidens, that to insure a happy mar- 
riage, higher requisites than personal beauty and bank 
stock are necessary. — There must be intellectual charms 
and moral wealth, to insure that sentiment which will 

"Live on through each change, and love to the last." 

The poetry of Mrs. Dinnies is characterized by vigor of 
thought, and delicate tenderness of feeling. — There is 
something exceedingly fascinating in the display of intel- 
lectual power, when it seems entirely devoted to the happi- 
ness of others. It is genius performing the office of a guar- 
dian angel. There is a fervidness in the expressions of 
this poetess, which goes to the heart of the reader at once, 
and exalts the strain, no matter what the theme may be. 
In the regionsof imagination she does not soar far or often; 
the wild and mysterious are not her passion; but the holy 
fire of poesy burns pure and bright in her own heart, and 
she cherishes it to illumine and bless her own hearth. 
The genius that has warmed into summer beauty a frozen 
" Chrysanthemum," that "peerless picture of a modest 
wife," should be cherished and encouraged ; for this "beau- 
ty-making power" it is which most essentially aids reli- 
gious truths to refine and purify social and domestic life. 



MOINA. 339 



WEDDED LOVE. 

CoMK, rouse thee, dearest! — 'tis not well 

To let the spirit hrood 
Thus darkly o'er the cares that swell 

Life's current to a flood. 
As hrooks, and torrents, rivers, all. 
Increase the gulf in which they fall, 
Such thoui^hts, by gathering up the rills 
Of lesser griefs, spread real ills; 
And, with their gloomy shades conceal 
The land-marks Hope would else reveal. 

Come, rouse thee, now — I know thy rnind, 
And would its strength awaken; 

Proud, gifted, noble, ardent, kind — 

Strange thou shouldst be tPius shaken ! 

But rouse afresh each energy, 

And be what Heaven intended thee; 

Throw from thy thoughts this wearying weight, 

And prove thy spirit firmly great : 

I would not see thee bend below 

The angry storms of earthly wo. 

Full well I know the generous soul 

Which warms thee into life. 
Each spring which can its powers control, 

Familiar to thy Wife — 
For deemest thou she had stooped to bind 
Her fate unto a common mind? 
The eagle-like ambition, nurs'd 
From childhood in her heart, had first 
Consumed, with its Promethean flame, 
The shrine — that sunk her so to shame. 



340 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Then rouse thee, dearest, from the dream 

That fetters now thy powers : 
Shake off this gloom — Hope sheds a beam 

To gild each cloud which lowers ; 
And though at present seems so far 
The wished for goal — a guiding star, 
With peaceful ray, would light thee on, 
Until its utmost bounds be won: 
That quenchless ray thou'lt ever prove. 
In fond, undying, Wedded Love. 



THE BLUSH. 

Was it unholy ? — Surely no ! 

The tongue no purer thought can speak, 

And from the heart no feeling flow 

More chaste, than brightens woman's cheek. 

How oft we mark the deep-tinged rose 
Soft mantling where the lily grew. 
Nor deem that where such beauty blows 
A treach'rous thorn 's concealed from view I 

That thorn may touch some tender vein, 
And crimson o'er the wounded part! — 
Unheeded, too, a transient pain 
Will flush the cheek, and thrill the heart. 

On beauty's lids, the gem-like tear 
Oft sheds its evanescent ray ; 
But scarce is seen to sparkle, ere 
'Tis chased by beaming smiles away ! 



MOINA. 341 



Just so the blush is formed — and flies - 
Nor owns reflection's calm control : 
It comes — it deepens — fades and dies 
A gush oi feeling from the soul! 



THE CHARNEL SHIP. 

The Charleston Courier of the 20th December, 1828, contains the 
account of a vessel discovered in 1773, by a Greenland Whale ship. 
It had been for 17 years frozen up among the icebergs in the north 
polar sea; and, when found, the corses of several persons in an 
almost perfect state of preservation were on board ; those of ihe 
Master, his wife, and a man with a book, in which he had probably 
been writing when he died, particularly attracted the attention of 
Captain Warren and his men. 

The night — the long dark night — at last 

Passed fearfully away ; 
'Mid crashing ice, and howling blast, 

They hailed the dawn of day, 
Which broke to cheer the Whaler's crew 
And wide around its gray light threw. 

The storm had ceased — its wrath had rent 

The icy wall asunder — 
And many a piercing glance they sent 

Around in awe and wonder; 
And sailor hearts their rude praise gave. 
To God, that morn, from o'er the wave. 

The breeze blew freshly, and the sun 

Pour'd his full radiance far 
On heaps of icy fragments — won. 

Sad trophies — in the past night's war 
Of winds and waters — and in piles 
Now drifted by bright shining isles ! 
29=^ 



342 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

But, lo ! still farther off appears 

A form, more dim and dark ; 
And anxious eyes — and hopes, and fears 

Its slow, strange progress mark. 
It moves towards them — by the breeze 
Borne onward from more northern seas. 

Near, and more near — and can it be, 

(More ventrous than their own) 
A Ship, whose seeming ghost they see 

Among the icebergs thrown — 
With broken masts — dismantled all, 
And dark sails like a funeral pall? 

"God of the mariner ! protect 
Her inmates, as she moves along 

Through perils, which ere now had wrecked — 
But that thine arm is strong ! " 

Ha! she has struck — she grounds — she stands 

Still — as if held by giant hands ! 

"duick, man the boat" — ^away they sprang. 

The stranger ship to aid, 
And loud their hailing voices rang. 

And rapid speed they made; 
But all in silence, deep, unbroke, 
The vessel stood — none answering spoke. 

'T was fearful I not a sound arose — 

No moving thing was there, 
To interrupt the dread repose 

Which filled each heart with fear. 
On deck they silent stepped — and sought, 
Till one, a man, their sad sight caught. 

He was alone — the damp-chill mould 

Of years hung on his cheek; 
While the pen within his hand had told 

The tale no voice might speak: 



MOINA. 343 

"Seventy days," the record stood — 

"We have been in the ice, and wanted food ! " 

They took his book, and turned away, 

But soon discovered where 
The Wife in her death-sleep, gently lay 

Near him in life most dear — 
Who, seated beside his young hearths pride, 
Long years before had calmly died. 

Oh, wedded love! how beautiful, 

How pure a thing thou art. 
Whose influence e'en in death can rule 

And triumph o'er the heart; 
Can cheer life's roughest walk — and shed 
A holy light around the dead I 

There was a solemn, sacred feeling 

Kindled in every breast. 
And, softly from the cabin stealing, 

They left them to their rest; 
The fair — the young — the constant pair — 
They left them with a blessing there. 

And to their boat returning, each 

With thoughtful brows, and haste, 
And o'ercharged hearts, too full for speech 

Left 'midst the frozen waste 
That Charnel ship, which years before 
Had sailed from distant Albion's shore. 

They left her in the icebergs, where 

Few venture to intrude, 
A monument of death, and fear, 

'Midst Ocean's solitude; 
And, grateful for their own release, 

Thanked God. and sought their homes in peace. 



344 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



TO MY HUSBAND'S FIRST GRAY HAIR. 

"I know thee not — I loathe thy race; 

" But in thy lineaments I trace 

" What time shall strengthen — not efface." 

Giaour. 

Thou strange, unbidden guest! from whence 

Thus early hast thou come? 
And wherefore ? Rude intruder, hence ! 

And seek some fitter home ! 
These rich young locks are all too dear — 
Indeed thou must not linger here ! 

Go ! take thy sober aspect where 

The youthful cheek is fading, 
Or find some furrowed brow, which Care 

And Passion have been shading ; » 

And add thy sad, malignant trace. 
To mar the aged, or anguished face ! 

Thou wilt not go? Then answer me, 

And tell what brought thee here? 
Not one of all thy tribe I see 

Beside thyself appear, 
And, through these bright and clustering curls, 
Thou shinest, a tiny thread of pearls. 

Thou art a moralist? ah, well ! 

And comest from Wisdom's land, 
A few sage axioms just to tell ? 

Well! well! I understand — 
Old Truth has sent thee here to bear 
The maxims which we fain must hear. 



MOINA. 345 

And now, as I observe thee nearer, 

Thoii'rt pretty — very pretty — quite 
As glossy and as fair — nay fairer 

Than these, but not so bright ; 
And since thou came Truth's messenger, 
Thou shalt remain, and speak ofher. 

She says thou art a herald, sent 

In kind and friendly warning, 
To mix with locks by Beauty blent, 

(The fair young brow adornmg,) 
And midst their wild luxuriance taught 
To show thyself, and waken thought. 

That thought, which to the dreamer preaches 

A lesson stern as true, 
That all things pass away, and teaches 

How youth must vanish too ! 
And thou wert sent to ouse anew 
This Thought, whene'er thou meet'st the view. 

And comes there not a whispering sound, 

A low, faint, murmuring breath. 
Which, as thou movest, floats around 

Like Echoes in their death? 
" Time onward sweeps, youth flies, 'prepare " — 
Such is thine errand, First Gray Hair. 



346 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



HAPPINESS. 

Happiness is of the heart, and it is the mind that gives its lone 
and coloring to Nature. 

There is a spell in every flower — 

A sweetness in each spray, 
And every simple 1 ird has power 

To please me with its lay ! 

And there is music on each breeze 

That sports along the glade ; 
The crystal dew-drops on the trees 

Are gemsj by Fancy made : 

There's gladness too in every thing, 

And beauty over all, 
For every where comes on, with Spring, 

A charm which cannot pall ! 

And I! — my heart is full of joy. 

And gratitude is there. 
That He, who might my life destroy, 

Has yet vouchsafed to spare. 

The friends I once condemn'd, are now 

Affectionate and true: 
I wept a pledged one's broken vow — 

But he proves faithful too. 

And now there is a happiness 

In every thing I see. 
Which bids my soul rise up and bless 

The God who blesses me. 



MOINA. 347 



THOUGHTS IN AUTUMN. 

Yes, thou art welcome, Autumn ! all thy changes, 
From fitful gloom, to sunny skies serene ; 
The starry vaults, o'er which the charmed eye ranges, 

And clear cold moonlight — touching every scene 
With a peculiar sadness — are sweet things 
To which my heart congenial fondly clings. 

There is a moral in the withered wreathes 

And faded garlands, that adorn thy bowers ; 
Eachblighted shrub — chilled flower — or seared leaf breathes 

Of parted days — and brighter, by-gone hours — 
Contrasting with the present dreary scene 
Spring's budding beauties — pleasures which have been. 

Oh, life ! thy pageantry is here portrayed ; 

A thousand emblems picture thee to view — 
But never, till Experience stern has laid 

On the young heart her wand, we deem them true. 
Then, while yet smarting from the touch, we own. 
Faithless the phantoms from our sight withdrawn. 

Friends, who have loved us in the pleasant years 
Of childhood — dead, or exiled far away; 

The seeming kind ones, — who, deceiving tears 
Shed for a time, — then left us for the gay ; 

The cold — the false — all then to memory start. 

And deeply trace their records on the heart. 

And Thee — my fair — my only one — now lying 
In Infancy's first bloom ; beneath the cold 

And cheerless sod, on whose still breast are dying 

These crisped young flow'rets, with their charms untoid. 



348 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

How come, in such an hour, fond thoughts of thee^ 
To soothe, yet sadden brooding Memory ! 

To win the spirit from those fleeting dreams 
Which bind it down to Earth — to break the spell 

Of each bright vision, which enchantment seems, 
And Truth's hard lesson deeply teach and well, 

Bidding the mind on Hope's light pinions rise. 

And seek its home — its joy beyond the skies. 

Alas ! there are not many lights which shed 

Their brightenin:^ radiance long, to cheer us here ; 

And some iiave lived to know the lustre fled 
From those which promised most — seemed strong and 
clear, 

Until the gathering clouds o'er Life's wild stream 

Wrapt all in gloom, save Hope's undying beam. 

Then may they not — worn bosoms such as these. 
Find sad memorials in ten thousand things 

To symbol forth their history ? Leafless trees 
Ye answer to my call — the bleak wind flings 

In Autumn's eve a spell upon the heart. 

From whose dark sympathy, 'twere grief to part. 

And things inan'mate may wake a sigh. 
When living objects weary : oft it cheers 

The drooping spirit — and relieves the eye, 

To gaze on Nature through our gushing tears — 

On objects which we feel cannot inherit, 

Though doomed to fail like us — a deathless spirit. 



MOINA. 349 



LINES 

Addressed to a While Chrysanthemum, presented to the writer 
in December. 

Fair gift of Friendship! and her ever bright 
And faultless image ! welcome now thou art, 

In thy pure loveliness — thy robes of white, 
Speaking a moral to the feeling heart ; 

Unscathed by heats — by wintry blasts unmoved — 

Thy strength thus tested — and thy charms improved. 

Emblem of innocence, which fearless braves 
Life's dreariest scenes, its rudest storm derides, 

And floats as calmly on o'er troubled waves. 
As where the peaceful streamlet smoothly glides ; 

Tlwu ^rt blooming ^010 as beautiful and clear. 

As other blossoms do, when Spring is here. 

Symbol of hope, still banishing the gloom, 
Hung o'er the mind by stern December's reign ! 

Thou cheer'st the fancy by thy steady bloom 
With thoughts of Summer and the fertile plain. 

Calling a thousand visions into play, 

Of beauty redolent — and bright as May ! 

Type of a true and holy love ; the same 

Through every scene that crowds life's varied page; 

Mid grief — mid gladness, spell of every dream. 
Tender in youth — and strong in feeble age ! 

The peerless picture of a modest wife, 

Thou bloom'st the fairest, midst ihe frosts of life.* 

* Literally — the water in which it was placed being now frozen. 
30 



350 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



STANZAS. 

Addressed to my daughter while she slept. 

Rest, my babe, in peace and beauty, 
On thy anxious mother's breast, 

Careful love, maternal duty 
Watch thee, precious, in thy rest. 

Rest, while infancy sheds o'er thee, 

Passionless, its purity 
Blinded to the fate before thee, — 

Free from guile, from sorrow free. 

Rest, ere childhood's playful season 
Scatters thorns with roses gay, — 

Thorns to spurn the waking reason, 
Roses fading in a day ; 

When a fleeting cloud, young sorrow 

Passes o'er thine open brow. 
Warning of a changeful morrow, — 

Rest unconscious, sweet one, now. 

Rest, ere girlhood's giddy hours 
Bind thee, pleasure's votary, 

In a wreath of weeds and flowers, 
Strown at random o'er thy way. 

Rest, ere yet the maiden's blushes 

Deepen o'er thy lily cheek. 
When the crimson torrent rushes, 

Voiceless, tho' 't will volumes speak. 



MO IN A. 351 



Ere the thoughts, the vivid fancies, 
Waking thou would'st not reveal, 

On thy sleeping face, (like glances 
From the soul,) shall brightly steal. 

Rest, while Infancy has bound thee 

In a circle free from pain ; 
Rest, ere womanhood casts round thee 

Sorrows, woman must sustain. 



THE WIFE. 

" She flung her white arms around him — Thou art all 
That this poor heart can cling to." 

I COULD have stemmed misfortune's tide, 

And borne the rich one's sneer, 
Have braved the haughty glance of pride, 

Nor shed a single tear. 
I could have smiled on every blow 

From Life's full quiver thrown. 
While I might gaze on thee, and know 

I should not be " alone." 

I could — I think I could have brooked. 

E'en for a time, that thou 
Upon my fading face hadst looked 

With less of love than now ; 
For then I should at least have felt 

The sweet hope still my own. 
To win thee back, and, whilst I dwelt 

On earth, not been " alone." 



352 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

But thus to see, from day to day, 

Thy brightening eye and cheek, 
And watch thy life-sands waste away, 

Unnumbered, slowly, meek; 
To meet thy smiles of tenderness. 

And catch the feeble tone 
Of kindness, ever breathed to bless, 

And feel, I'll be "alone j" — 

To mark thy strength each hour decay, 

And yet thy hopes grow stronger, 
As, filled with heaven-ward trust, they say, 

" Earth may not claim thee longer;" 
Nay, dearest, 'tis too much — this heart 

Must break, when thou art gone ; 
It must not be ; Ave may not part ; 

I could not live " alone 1 " 



THE HEART. 

" I lingered in the Halls of Imagination. Her sceptre had fallen 
from her grasp. I turned to the realm of the Heart. Its power 
had increased with years." 

There was a time when Fancy uninvoked. 
Cast her light spells where'er my spirit roved. 

Each passing scene anew her smiles provoked. 
And all seemed lovely, — for each one was loved» 

But now I gaze, unheeding most I see 

Of wild or fair, in Nature's boundless hoard ; 

A change is over all — a change in me — 
As Lethe's streams o'er Fancy's source were poured. 



MOINA. 353 

This change I mourn, and seek again the dreams 
Which brightened, soothed, and gladdened life of yore ; 

But shaded groves, fresh flowers, and purling streams, 
Exert their influence o'er my mind no more. 

No more I dream — for Fancy has grown old 
And Thought is busied now with sterner things, 

E'en Feeling's self — yet, no ! I am not cold ; 
But feeling now round other objects clings. 

There are in life, realities as dear. 

Nay, dearer far than Fancy can create, 
Though Taste may vary — beauty disappear, 

That linger still, defying Time and Fate. 

The flush of Youth soon passes from the face, 
The spells of Fancy from the mind depart. 

The form may lose its symmetry and grace, — 
But Time can claim no victory o'er the Heart. 



30* 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



Mrs. Whitman is a native of Providence, Rhode-Island. 
Her maiden name was Power. Her father died when she 
was a child ; her mother being thus left to the solitariness 
of a widow's lot, devoted herself with unwearied care to 
the education of her daughter. 

The health of Miss Power was constitutionally delicate, 
while her mental faculties developed with that quickness 
and brilliancy which surely indicates the predominancy of 
imagination. Poetry was the favorite literature of her youth- 
ful studies, and she soon manifested the propensity, which 
the Muse will foster in those she elects her votaries, to 
" write in rhyme." 

In 1828, Miss Power was married to John W. Whitman, 
a young lawyer, son of Judge Whitman, of Boston. The 
marriage was one of affection, induced by the congeniality 
of poetical and literary tastes — but the union was in a few 
years dissolved by the death of Mr. Whitman. Mrs. 
Whitman then returned to her mother's arms, and her early 
home at Providence, where she now resides. 

Her poetry has appeared in the periodicals and annuals 
over the signature " Helen," and always excited attention 
by its richness of imagery and sweet, melodious versifica- 
tion. She has an uncommonly retentive memory, and elab- 
orates her poems in a rather peculiar manner j arranging, 



HELEN. 355 

correcting and finishing them as compositions perfectly 
and wholly in her mind, be they ever so long, before com- 
mitting a line to paper. By this means she has no unfin- 
ished performances; those that she does not complete at 
once are entirely abandoned. 

Her published poems have not been numerous; she ap- 
pears never to have contemplated making a volume, but 
only allows her thoughts to visit the temple of the muses, 
to gratify her own love of the beautiful and glorious in na- 
ture and art. The genius of this amiable woman seems 
naturally of that delicate presence which shrinks, like the 
" Sensitive plant," from any collision with the actual world ; 
but the sad passages in her life have probably deepened the 
melancholy pathos of her strains. There appears no affec- 
tation in this sensibility — she feels as warm admiration for 
the beauties and blessings which the beneficent Creator has 
bestowed on the works and creatures of his hand, as though 
these awakened none but pleasurable emotions. Still 
there is ever in her heart a sensation of sadness, like that 
so powerfully described by Keats in his " Ode on Melan- 
choly," as if she tasted the bitter ingredient in the sweetest 
draught, and could always say of the " Goddess sage and 
holy," 

" She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die; 

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh. 

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips; 
Ay, in the very temple of Delight 

Veil'd Melanclioly has her sorrow shrine. 
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue 

Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine ; 
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might. 

And be among her cloudy trophies hung." 



356 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



THE BLIND MAN'S LAY. 

" At times Allan felt as if his blindness were a blessing— for it 
forced him to trust to his own soul— to turn for comfort to the best 
and purest human affections -and to see God always. Fanny could 
almost have wept to see the earth and the sky so beautiful, now that 
Allan's eyes were dark ; but he whispered to her, that the smell of 
the budding trees and of the primroses, that he knew were near his 
feet, was pleasant indeed, and that the singing of all the little birds 
made his heart dance within him." — Lights and Shadows of Scot- 
tish Life. 

He sat beside the fountain, on whose brink 

A troop of blue-eyed violets oped their lids 

To the first breezy call of early spring — 

And there, from the grey davi'n till twilight's gloom, 

Where the soft, springing moss, surcharged with dew, 

Yielded its oozing moisture to the touch, 

Telling the nightfall near, — he mused away 

Long hours of silent happiness, save when 

The soft and pitying words of love would call 

His spell-bound spirit from its blissful thrall ; 

Then, in a voice of sweetest melody. 

He breathed his unrepiuing, meek reply: 

Though I hear thee gaily tell 
Of the tulip's shaded bell, 
Of the wall-flower's varied hue, 
And the violet "darkly blue," 
And the crimson blush that glows 
On the rich, voluptuous rose — 
These no longer bloom for me, 
These I never more may see. 



HELEN. 357 

But this gentle season still 
Can my heart with gladness fill — 
I can hear the spring-winds blow, 
And the gurgling fountains flow. 
Hark ! e'en now a zephyr breathes, 
Through the balmy hawthorn wreaths, 
Unfelt, unheard by all but me, 
It swells so soft, so silently ! 

I can hear the humming-bee 
Flitting o'er the sunny lea, 
Wooing every bashful flower. 
From morn till evening's dewy hour. 
All around the voice of birds. 
And the lisped and laughing words 
Of merry childhood, greet my ear. 
With power the saddest heart to cheer. 

When o'er earth night's shadow lies, 
I hear thee tell of cloudless skies, 
And countless stars that twinkle through 
Heaven's broad and boundless arch of blue; 
Of snow white spires and turrets fair 
Soft gleaming in the moonlit air. 
Whose dusky depths of shadow lie 
Heightening the brilliant scenery. 

Then beneath the pine trees tall, 
Near yonder foaming waterfall, 
I listen to the stock dove's wail, 
Far floating through the quiet vale ; 
Soft sighing breezes waft to me 
The fragrance of the birchen tree — 
And the " brawling burnie" wimples by 
With a gush of soothing melody. 

E'en all sweet sense of these will fade 
At times — as though impervious shade 



358 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Like that which hides me from the day, 
O'er each external image lay — 
Then many a form thou canst not see, 
Unfolds its sun-bright wings to me. 
And deep within my silent soul 
High thoughts and holiest visions roll. 

Full many an angel messenger 
Comes down my darksome path to cheer, 
And all around my sylvan throne 
There seems to wake a dreamy tone 
Of solemn music through the air. 
So wildly sweet — so silvery clear — 
So full of heaven — no tongue can tell 
The raptures that my bosom swell. 

Not all the joys'that have their birth 
In the vain pageantries of earth. 
Are half so fraught with power to bless, 
So rich in pensive happiness. 
Wrapt in these lonely reveries. 
Serene and holy transports rise. 
Such as we deem pure spirits know. 
Such as from God's felt presence flow. 

Thus, when affliction's friendly screen 
Shuts out life's vain illusive scene — 
When thus she seals our weary eyes 
To all its glittering vanities, 
A gleam of heavenly light will pour 
Our dark despairing spirits o'er. 
And Faith, with meek and steadfast eye. 
Far glancing through eternity. 

Sees where the heavenly mansions rise, 
Of her bright home beyond the skies. 
Whose golden fanes sublimely tower 
High o'er the clouds that round us lower. 



HELEN 



Then welcome sorrow's shrouding shade 
Fade ! scenes of earthly splendor, fade ! 
And leave me to that dawning ray- 
That brightens till the "perfect day." 



RETROSPECTION. 

My heart is in my childhood's home. 

And by the far-off sunny braes, 
Where, musing, once I loved to roam, 

In early youth's romantic days. 

The past — the past — the dreamy past, 
Called up by memory's magic wand, 

Gleams through the halo round it cast, 
Bright as e'en hope's own phantom land. 

Oh never more in after life 
Can hope itself snch. dreams impart 

As then, with breathing beauty rife, 
Wreathed their soft spells around my heart. 

The skies were brighter then, than now. 
More bland the wandering breezes blew, 

The birds sang sweeter on the bough. 
The wild flowers wore a richer hue. 

Ideal forms of classic lore, 

By moss-grown grot and crystal well, 
Seemed still to linger as of yore, 

And fairies danced in every dell. 

Blither than Elf-land's fabled queen, 
I loved the green and laughing earth ; 



360 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

While wooded cliff and wild ravine, 
Were echoing to my bosom's mirth. 

For care had never dimm'd my brow. 
Nor friends proved heartless and untrue ; 

I ne'er had wept love's broken vow, 
Nor aught of life's dark changes knew. 

Farewell, sweet scenes of past delight! 

Slowly ye sink from memory's gaze. 
Still beaming with reflected light, 

As bathed in twilight's parting rays, 

I wander on my weary way, 

Unmindful where my lot is cast. 

Since wheresoe'er my footsteps stray, 
They cannot lead me to the past. 



SHE BLOOMS NO MORE. 

O Spring! youth of the year — fair mother of flowers! 
Thou returnest, but with thee returiiL not the serene 
And fortunate days of my joy. — Guarina. 

I DREAD to see the summer sun 

Come glowing up the sky. 
And modest flowerets, one by one. 

Opening the violet eye ; 
The choral melody of June — 

The perfumed breath of heaven — 
The dewy morn — the radiant noon — 

The lingering light of even. 



HELEN. 361 

These, which so charmed my careless heart 

In happy days gone by, 
A deeper sadness now impart 

To memory's thoughtful eye. 
They speak of one who sleeps in death. 

Her race untimely o'er. 
Who ne'er shall taste spring's honied breath. 

Nor see her glories more. 

Of one who shared, with me, in youth 

Life's sunshine and its flowers. 
And kept unchanged her bosom's truth 

Through all its darker hours. 
She faded when the leaves were sere. 

And wailed the autumnal blast — 
With all the glories of the year 

From earth her spirit passed. 

Again the nodding lilac bows 

Beneath its plumy crest — 
In yonder hedge the hawthorn blows, — 

The robin builds his nest. 
The floating vines she loved to train 

Around her lattice, wear 
Their snowy coronals again. 

And hang their garlands there. 

But she can bloom on earth no more, 

Whose early doom I mourn, — 
Nor spring, nor summer can restore 

Our flower untimely shorn ; 
Her smile is gone, which beamed on me 

With mild and steadfast light ; 
Her rosy lips have mournfully 

Breathed out their last good night. 

She ne'er shall hear again the song 
Of merry birds in spring, 
31 



362 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Nor roam the flowery braes among 
In the year's young blossoming: 

Nor longer in the lingering light 
Of summer's eve shall we, 

Locked hand in hand, together sit 
Beneath the green-wood tree. 

'Tis therefore that I dread to see 

The glowing summer sun. 
And balmy blossoms on the tree, 

Unfolding one by one. 
They speak of things which once have been, 

But never more can be, — 
And earth all decked in smiles again 

Is still a waste to me. 



TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 

Hail! queen of high and holy thought ; 
Of dreams, with fairy beauty fraught ; 
Sweet memories of the days gone by; 
Glimpses of immortality. 
Visions of grandeur, glory, power. 
All that in inspiration's hour. 
Like sunset's changing glories roll 
Within the poet's raptured soul ! 

Thy throne is in the crimson fold. 
Around the setting day-star rolled — 
Thou walkest through the sapphire sky. 
When the bright moon is sailing high, 
Touching the stars with purer light, 
And lending holier charms to night: 



HELEN. 363 

The clouds a deeper glory wear, 
The winds a softer music Jbear, 
And earth is heaven, when thou art there. 

There's not a murmur on the breeze. 
Nor ripple on the dark, blue seas. 
Nor breath of violets, faintly sweet, 
Nor glittering dewdrop at our feet. 
Nor tinge of mellow radiance, where 
Soft moon-beams melt along the air; 
Nor shade, nor tint, on flower or tree. 
But takes a softer grace from thee. 

And love itself — the brightest gem 
In all creation's diadem — 
Oh ! what were mortal love, didst thou 
Not lend a glory to his brow ? 
Degraded, though of heavenly birth, 
And sullied with the cares of earth — 
Wasted and worn, by doubts and fears, 
Its youthful smiles soon change to tears : 
But at thy spirit-stirring breath, 
It burst the bonds of sin and death ; 
And, robed in heavenly charms by thee. 
It puts on immortality. 



CAROLINE GILMAN 



Mrs. Gilman, whose maiden name was Howard, was 
born in Boston, and has proved herself a worthy daughter 
of the " Literary Emporium." She is not, however, so 
much distinguished for her devotion to the muses, as for 
her prose writings, and the hearty zeal with which she has 
labored to diffuse a literary spirit and strengthen and beau- 
tify the moral taste of the community where she resides. — 
Mrs. Gilman is wife of the Rev. Samuel Gilman, a clergy- 
man of the Unitarian faith, who has been for a number of 
years pastor of a church at Charleston, S. C. There, the 
urbanity of his manners, the kindness of his heart, and the 
truly Christian virtues he has exhibited, have gained for 
him a warm regard from Christians of all denominations. 
And to say that Mrs. Gilman has proved " a help meet for 
him," is to her the highest praise we can give, or that she 
would covet. 

About three years since, Mrs. Gilman, who felt the great 
importance of giving to the youthful mind aright direction, 
formed the plan of issuing a " Journal for the Young." She 
named it "The Southern Rose-bud," and published it 
semi-monthly. It was so well received and patronized, 
that she has now enlarged its size, and elevated its charac- 
ter to the standard of a literary and moral paper,* in which 
persons of all ages can find pleasure and profit. — In this 

* " The Southern Rose." 



C. G. 365 

paper some of her best poetry and most of her prose writings 
have first appeared. — She has collected one volume of 
these " Sketches " already, " Recollections of a House- 
keeper," — a very sprightly, amusing, and useful little 
work — and she has another in preparation — " The South- 
ern Matron," which we feel confident will also be very 
popular. 

The character of Mrs. Oilman's poetry is that of a healthy 
imagination and cheerful mind ; she sees no " lions in her 
path," and she attempts no picturings of fictitious woes. 
She admires nature, and delights in society : the dear do- 
mestic affections and virtues are the themes she chooses — 
these, to her ardent feelings, are sufficient inspiration ; 
and Nature, with all her glories and beauties, is but the 
hand-maid to decorate home with those thoughts and fan- 
cies which can be used to make glad the faces of those she 
loves. — Like the "Amaranth," her heart seems always in 
bloom ; and though she did not bring an early offering to 
the temple of the muses, yet her matured powers of mind 
and natural vivacity of temperament, promise her name a 
bright and long-continued place among the living flowers 
of our Wreath. 



THE BETROTHED. 

Scene. — A Southei^n Plantation — Noon. 

MOTHER. 

Why linger near me, Emma, with that cheek 
Which colors up in flushings like the sky 
Lit by the sinking sun ? Why from thine hand 
Falls the small needle, as e'en that were weight 
Too large ? What mean these broken words, and sighs 
Now passionate, then sinking down so low 
That I must bend mine ear to catch the tone? 
Hark ! is that Edgar's step ? 
31* 



366 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

EMMA, 

O, mother dear — 

MOTHER. 

My child, my simple child, it needs not words 
To tell me now — indeed, I've known it long. 
Think'st thou that I could see the lily's eaves 
Floating like living things upon the wave, 
And guess not that the tide, did move them thus ? 
Think'st thou that when the rose's bloom is stirr'd, 
I know not that the breeze, with waving breath, 
Is sweeping o'er its rich and blushing leaves ? 
Or, when the wind-harp wakes with, thrilling tones, 
Iknow not the same breeze, kissing its strings, 
Doth cause its murmurs ? Just as plain to me, 
Is it, that love, my child, hath touch'd thy soul 1 
Nay, start not, Emma, 'tis no sin to love. — 
But come, and laythy head upon my breast. 
And tell me all. I will not seek thine eyes, 
Nor pierce their sable fringe, but clasp thy hand, 
Thy fair, soft hand, whose tender pressure shall 
Speak half thy tale. 

EMMA. 

My gentle mother, how 
Can I for any other love neglect 
Thy love ? nor did I, nor did Edgar thus; 
And whenthis morn heurg'd his eager suit. 
Thy name was blent in fondness with my own. 
Rememberest thou, oh yes, thou never canst 
Forget the day, when, but a thoughtless girl, 
With springing step and floating hair, I sought 
The river bank whereon my brothers sat. 
Throwing the line to lure their watery prey ; 
Eager to see their prisoner caught, I lean'd 
On a young sapling with unconscious weight, 



C. G. 367 

And fell — when Edgar saw — he sprang — impetuous, 
Leap'd to the wave, and, with sustaining strength. 
Upbore me till assistance came. How quick 
Is thought ! Though reeling, dizzy, just upon 
The brink of dark futurity, this hope 
Came lighting like a torch my youthful heart, 
Edgar will be my friefid ! I knew not love. 
Or then perchance I might have said, my love ! 

Ere long he left us for more classic bowers ; 
But tidings often came of one, who stood 
Before his classmates with a laurelPd brow. 
Winning with graceful ease the frequent prize. 
Nor this alone ; I heard of generous deeds 
Where the kind heart out-shone the sparkling mind. 
As yon white blossoms grace the laurel-tree. 

And tokens sometimes came rememberingly, 
(Thou know'st them, mother, well) — a drawing once 
Of a young girl just rescued from the waves. 
With eyes seal'd up like blossoms in rude storms j 
He had not sketch'd her young deliverer ; 
For modesty is nature in him, but 
My vision fancied there the ardent boy, — 
His chestnut curls crush'd by the sweeping stream. 
His panting chest, his opening lips, his eyes 
Starting in fear, and doubt, and growing joy. 
When I unfolded mine. — sometimes a flower 
Was sent, or leaf, gather'd perchance in some 
Lone, musing hour ; or colored sea-shell which 
In whispers to mine ear, told a soft tale 
I whisper'd not again. 

Time roll'd, and he. 
That distant one, crown'd with collegiate fame,. 
Return'd. He sought me mother, and this morn, 
Where the clematis-bower shuts out the sun. 
And the fond birds pour forth their loving lays, 
He ask'd me for my heart. — I answer'd not; 
But, mother, it was his, on that far morn 



368 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

When shuddering from the river's depth I woke 
Within his arms. 

MOTHER. 

Thanks, love, for this fond trust 
Oh, never should a daughter's thoughts find rest ; 
On kinder pillow than a mother's heart. 
But Edgar comes. — Look up, and meet his smile. 

^ ^ i/: if -ili -^ if. 

Yes, take her hand, and with it a young heart 
Full of love's first devotion. 'Tis a charge. 
My son, most precious ! When she errs, reprove; 
Spare not deserv'd reproof; she has been train'd 
In Christ's high school, and knows that she is frail. 
And she can bear the probe when brought by love. 
But of neglect beware I Cherish her well ; 
For should the breath of coldness fall on her. 
Thou wouldst hear no complaint, but thou wouldst see 
Her sink into the grave, as the green leaves 
Shrivel and fade beneath autumnal winds. 

It is a struggle hard to bear, my son. 
When a fond mother's cherish'd flower is borne. 
Gently transplanted, to a happy home ; 
But deeper far than death's the withering pang, 
To see her sought a few short months of pride, 
Her beauties cherish'd, and her odors priz'd, 
And then thrown by as lightly as the weed, 
The trampled weed, along the traveller's path. 

And, oh, bethink thee, Edgar of her soul, 
And lead her in the heavenly road to God. 
In that great day, when mortal hearts are bare, 
Motives and deeds, before the Eternal throne. 
Beware lest I, with earnest pleadings sue 
To thee for this sweet child I Bring her to me 
A blessed spirit, wrapt in robes of grace, 
And if there's gratitude in heavenly bowers, 
Oh, thou shalt hear its full and gushing tones 
Rise in thanksgiving from a mother's soul ! 



C.G. 369 



THE MOCKING-BIRD IN THE CITY. 

Bird of the South! is this a scene to waken 

Thy native notes in thrilling, gushing tone? 
Thy woodland nest of love is all forsaken — 
Thy mate alone ! 

While stranger-throngs roll by, thy song is lending 

Joy to the happy, soothings to the sad ; 
O'er my full heart it flows with gentle blending, 
And I am glad. 

And /will sing, though dear ones, loved and loving, 

Are left afar in my sweet nest of home, 
Though from that nest, with backward yearnings moving, 
Onward I roam ! 

And with heart-music shall my feeble aiding, 

Still swell the note of human joy aloud ; 
Nor, with untrusting soul-kind Heaven upbraiding, 
Siffh mid the crowd. 



"WHICH IS THE BEAUTY?" 

I SEE her; 'tis she with her large dark eyes, 
That glance like light over evening skies; 
Her hair in ringlets fluttering ftee, 
And her lips that move with melody. 

" Not she. There's a beauty I higher prize 

" Than the fringed glance of those radiant eyes." 



370 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

I see her; 'tis she of the ivory brow 
And heaven-ting'd orbs : I know her now, 
With her glancing step, and look of life, 
And voice out-breaking in music's strife. 

"Not she. There's a beauty that lovelier glows 
" Though her coral lip with melody flows." 

Then it must be she of the brilliant mind, 
With her spirit attun'd to thoughts refin'd, 
With her high look soaring away, away. 
To ideal worlds where angels stray. 

"Not she. There's another more lovely still, 
"With a chasten'd mind, and a tempered will." 

I see her, 'tis goodness that gilds her brow. 
Like the sun on the fruit of an autumn bough ; 
I can read her heart like an opening book. 
Thro' each change serene of her innocent look. 

" Yes ; this is the beauty that blossoms fair, 

"And will blossom for aye, in life's garden of care." 



TO 



On pure and gentle ones, within your ark 

Securely rest ! 
Blue be the sky above — your quiet bark 

By soft winds blest ! 

Still toil in duty, and commune with Heaven. 

World-weaned and free ; 
God to his humblest creatures room has given, 

And space to be. 



C. G. 371 

Space for the eagle in the vaulted sky- 
To plume his wing — 

Space for the ring-dove by her young to lie, 
And softly sing. 

Space for the sun-flower, bright with yellow glow 

To court the sky — 
Space for the violet, where the wild woods grow, 

To live and die. 

Space for the ocean, in its giant might 

To swell and rave — 
Space for the river, tinged with rosy light, 

Where green banks wave. 

Space for the sun. to tread his path in might 

And golden pride — 
Space for the glow-worm, calling, by her light. 

Love to her side. 

Then, pure and gentle ones, within your ark 

Securely rest ! 
Blue be the skies above, and your still bark 

By kind winds blest. 



372 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



CHILDREN AT PLAY. 

Sport on ; sport on ; 
A mother's thought, shadow of heavenly love, 
Dwells on you. In her home, mid household cares, 
Kindle up hopes, which deep in its soft folds 
Her inmost soul has wrapt. She musing asks, — 
" What his high fate, that boy with eagle eye, 
And well-knit limbs, and proud impetuous thought ? 
A patriot, leading men, and breathing forth 
His warm soul for his country ? or a bard. 
With holy song refining earth's cold ear ? 
A son, holding the torch of love to age 
As its closed eye turns dimly to the grave ? 
Or husband, wrapping with protecting arms. 

One who leans on him in her trusting youth? '' 

" And for those girls," she asks, " what gentle fate 

Lies cradled on the softest down of time ? 

A rosy lot must garland out their years — 

Those sunny eyes with laughing spirits wild, 

Those rounded limbs are all unfit for want. 

Or sterner care. Gently will they be borne 

On beds of flowers, beneath an azure sky." 

Oh dreams, fair dreams ! God's dower to woman's 
heart, 

Your light and waving curtains still suspend 

Before the future, which lies dark behind. 



ELIZABETH F. EI. LET. 



The literary career of Mrs. Ellet has been brief, but thus 
far very successful. It is only about three years since she 
became known as a writer, and already her fame is estab- 
lished as a poetess of much promise, and her elegant trans- 
lations from the Italian and French poets have proved her 
an accomplished scholar in those beautiful languages. 

Mrs. Ellet was born at Sodus, a small town on the shores 
of Lake Outario. Her father, the late Doctor Lummis, was 
a man of learning, and good taste ; but jie lived at a dis- 
tance from all learned society — and the advantages of a 
common school education were, in that retired place, very 
limited. However, genius does not depend on the schools: 
Elizabeth was early distinguished for vivacity of intellect 
and poetical talents ; and then she had the good fortune to 
attract the attention and secure the affections of a congenial 
mind. This was Doctor William H. Ellet, then Professor 
of Chemistry, in Columbia College, N. Y. He married 
her when she was very young, only about seventeen, and 
under his tuition she immediately commenced the study of 
the modern languages. He was himself a sound scholar, 
and possessed much poetical taste ; and the proficiency of 
Mrs. Ellet not only proves her own superior powers of in- 
tellect, but also the superior talents and learning of her 

32 



374 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

tutoVj as well as the devotion he must have paid to her 
improvement. 

In 1833, she began to venture her productions before the 
public eye, her first poems appearing in the American La- 
dies' Magazine. These were very favorably reviewed, 
and she has gone on increasing her literary acquaintance, 
till she is now a regular contributor to several periodicals. 
The articles on "Italian and French Literature " and in 
the " Italian and French Poets, and Poetry," whifh have, 
at different times, appeared in the " American Q,uarterly," 
,and in " The Southern Literary Journal " are from her pen. 

In 1834, appeared her translation of "Euphemio of Mes- 
sina, " one of the most admired productions of Silvio 
Pellico. Since then she has written two original trage- 
dies, one of which, (Teresa Contarini) is printed in her 
volume of Poems, published a few months since, at 
Philadelphia. This tragedy bears the same mipress of 
pure thoughts, expressed in chaste and beautiful language, 
which marks all her poetry. There is not much original- 
ity of invention displayed in her productions ; but her ver- 
sification is very correct, and the images and illustrations 
such as show a heart-warm love for the charms of nature, 
and a fancy that has revelled in the beauties of the classic 
world. Her critical taste is refined by a thorough acquaint- 
ance with the choice writings of the Italian and French 
schol ars; and -^he has lately added the study of the German 
language and literature to her many acquisitions. Nor 
are her accomplishments confined to the merely literary ; 
in music and drawing she also excels; and in the graces 
that adorn society, and make the charm of social and do- 
mestic intercourse, she is described as being eminently 
gifted. She now resides at Columbia, S. C. — her husband, 
Dr. Ellet, being chosen to a Professorship in the College 
at that place. Her fervid and active mind will doubtless 
find much gratification in the new and rich scenery of the 
South — her genius, like the " orange blossom," seems to 



E. F. E. 375 

require a sunny climate, in which to expand ; and from one 
who has so sedulou:ily explored the beauties of Italian lit- 
erature, and at the early age of iwenty-two established 
such a reputation for critical learning and poetical taste, we 
expect, for the future, much that will adorn our literature 
and elevate our sex. 



SUSaUEKANNA. 

Softly the blended light of evening rests 
Upon thee, lovely stream ! Thy gentle tide, 
Picturing the gorgeous beauty of the sky, 
Onward, unbroken by the ruffling wind. 
Majestically flows. Oh I by thy side. 
Far from the tumults and the throng of men. 
And the vain cares that vex poor human life, 
'T were happiness to dwell, alone with thee, 
And the wide solemn grandeur of the scene. 
From thy green shores, the mountains that inclose 
In their vast sweep the beauties of the plain. 
Slowly receding, toward the skies ascend. 
Enrobed with clustering woods, o'er which the smile 
Of Autumn in his loveliness hath passed, 
Touching their foliage with his brillinnt hues, 
And flinging o'er the lowliest leaf and shrub 
His golden livery. On the distant heights 
Soft clouds, earth-based, repose, and stretch afar 
Their burnished summits in the clear blue heaven, 
Flooded with splendor, that the dazzled eye 
Turns drooping from the sight. — Nature is here 
Like a throned sovereign, and thy voice doth tell, 
In music never silent, of her power. 



376 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Nor are thy tones unanswered, where she builds 
Such monuments of regal sway. These wide, 
Untrodden forests eloquently speak, 
Whether the breath of Summer stir their depths, 
Or the hoarse moaning of November's blast 
Strip from the boughs their covering. 

All the air 
Is now instinct with life. The merry hum 
Of the returning bee, and the blithe song 
Of fluttering bird, mocking the solitude, 
Swell upward — and the play of dashing streams 
From the green mountain side is faintly heard. 
The wild swan swims the waters' azure breast 
With graceful sweep, or, startled, soars away. 
Cleaving with mounting wing the clear bright air. 

Oh ! in the boasted lands beyond the deep, 

Where Beauty hath a birth-right — where each mound 

And mouldering ruin tells of ages past — 

And every breeze, as with a spirit's tone. 

Doth waft the voices of Oblivion back, 

Waking the soul to lofty memories, — 

Is there a scene whose loveliness could fill 

The heart with peace more pure ? — Nor yet art thou, 

Proud stream! without thy records — graven deep 

On yon eternal hills, which shall endure 

Long as their summits breast the wint'ry storm, 

Or smile in the warm sunshine. They have been 

The chroniclers of centuries gone by ; 

Of a strange race, who trod perchance their sides, 

Ere these gray woods had sprouted from the earth 

Which now they shade. Here onward swept thy waves, 

When tones now silent mingled with their sound, 

And the wide shore was vocal with the song 

Of hunter chief, or lover's gentle strain. 

Those passed away — forgotten as they passed ; 



E. F. E. 377 

But holier recollections dwell with thee: 
Here hath immortal Freedom built her proud 
And solemn monuments. The mighty dust 
Of heroes in her cause of glory fallen, 
Hath mingled with the soil, and hallowed it. 
Thy waters in their brilliant path have seen 
The desperate strife that won a rescued world — 
The deeds of men who live in grateful hearts, 
And hymned their requiem. 

Far beyond this vale 
That sends to heaven its incense of lone flowers, 
Gay village spires ascend — and the glad voice 
Of industry is heard. — So in the lapse 
Of future years these ancient woods shall bow 
Beneath the levelling axe — and Man's abodes 
Displace their sylvan honors. They will pass 
In turn away ; — yet, heedless of all change, 
Surviving all, thou still wilt murmur on. 
Lessoning the fleeting race that look on thee 
To mark the wrecks of time and read their doom. 



YOUTHFUL JOYS. 

The cloud, where sunbeams soft repose, 

Gilt by the changeful ray, 
With tints still warm and golden, glows, 

When they have passed away. 

The stream, that, in its billowy sweep, 
Bursts from the mountain side, 

Bears far into the calm blue deep, 
Its swift and freshening tide. 
32* 



378 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Thus youthful joys our hearts can thrill, 
Though life has lost its bloom; 

And sorrow's hours of darkness still 
With lingering charms illume. 



TO THE LANCE-FLY. 

Forth with the breezy sweep 

Of spirit wings upon thy path of light, 
Thou creature of the sunbeam! upward keep 

Thine earth-defying flight! 

The glowing west is still; 

In hallowed slumber sinks the restless sea ; 
And heaven's own tints have wrought o'er tree and hill 

A purpling canopy. 

Go — bathe thy gaudy wing 

In freshened azure from the deepening sky — 
In the rich gold yon parting sunbeams fling, 

Ere yet their glories die. 

The boundless air is thine, 

The gorgeous radiance of declining day ; 
TJiose painted clouds their living hues entwine, 

To dark thy heavenward way. 

Soar on ! my fancies too 

Would quit awhile the fading beauties here, 
To roam with thee that waste of boundless blue ! 

And view yon heaven more near. 

Lost — in the distant page, 

Ere my bewildered thoughts for flight were free ! 
Farewell ! in vain upon the void I gaze, — 

I cannot soar like thee ! 



E. F. E. 379 



WHO ARE THE HAPPY? 

O'er the far mountain peak on high, 
First shines the morning ray ; 

And latest from the crimson sky 
The beam of parting day. 

Yet there, to greet the partial light, 
Nor flowers nor verdure bloom ; 

But barren all— though coldly bright 

And cheerless as the tomb. 

While in the modest vale's recess. 
Where sunlight scarce descends, 

Fresh flowerets spring, the beam to bless, 
And grateful foliage bends. 

Thus hearts that bask in fortune's smile, 
Undimmed by clouds of care, 

Feel not the joys their hours beguile. 
Which humbler bosoms share. 



STANZAS. 
Written while sailing through the Delaware Water-Gap. 

Onward with gliding swiftness, 
Our light bark cleaves the deep ; 

The billow dances in our wake. 
As down the tide we sweep 



380 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

The broad high cliffs above us, 

Like giant columns stand ; 
As in their grandeur stationed there, 

The guardians of their land. 

Yon purple clouds are drooping 

Their banners from on high, 
And brightly through their waving folds 

Gleams forth the azure sky. 
And sunset's beams are tinting 

The mountain's lofty crest ; 
Yet fails their golden light to reach 

The silent river's breast. 

The eagle soars around us ; 

His home is on the height, 
To which with eager, upward wing, 

He shoots in airy flight. 
The rough night blast high o'er us. 

Assails the beetling verge; 
And through the forests' tangled depths 

Murmurs like ocean's surge : 
The foliage trembles to his breath. 

The massive timbers groan — 
But we, his might defying, pass 

In sheltered silence on. 

Onward ! dim night is gathering ; 

Those gilded summits fade — 
And darkly from the thickets brown 

Extends the deep'ning shade: 
It shrouds us, but we pause not: — 

With light and graceful sweep. 
Shadowy and swift, our vessel breaks 

The waters' glassy sleep. 



E. F. E. 381 



Their rocky barrier past at length, 
We feel the cool fresh air ; 

Yon light is beaming from our home, 
And welcome waits us there. 



WORLDLY CARES. 

The waves that on the sparkling sand 

Their foaming crests upheave, 
Lightly receding from the land, 

Seem not a trace to leave: 
Those billows in their ceaseless play, 
Have worn the solid rocks away. 

The summer winds, which wandering sigh 

Amid the forest bower, 
So gently, as they murmur by. 

Scarce lift the drooping flower ; 
Yet bear they, in autumnal gloom, 
Spring's withered beauties to the tomb. 

Thus worldly cares, though lightly borne, 

Their impress leave behind; 
And spirits, which their bonds would spurn, 

The blighting traces find ; 
Till altered thoughts and hearts grown cold. 
The change of passing years unfold. 



332 THE LADIES' WREATH. 



IS THIS A DAY OF DEATH? 

Is this a day of death ? 
The heavens look blithely on the laughing earth, 
And from her thousand vales a voice of mirth 

And melody is springing ; with the breath 
Of smiling flowers, that lift their joyous heads, 
Bright with the radiant tears which evening sheds. 

Hath sorrow's voice been heard 
With her low plaint, and broken wail of woe? — 
Hark to the play of waves ! — and glancing now 

Forth from his leafy nest th' exulting bird 
Pours his wild carol on the fragrant gale, 
Bidding the sun-bright woods and wa,ters hail! 

Hath happiness departed 
From this gljjd scene? Is there a home — a hearth 
Made desolate ? Alas ! the tones of earth 

Sound not in concert with the broken-hearted I 
Yon sea — the gorgeous sun — the azure sky--- 
Were never meant to mourn with things that die I 



SARAH JOSEPH A HALE. 



It is no very easy matter to introduce one's own " Sketch," 
or decide on the relative merit of one's own performances. 
That I have writ.en some things not unworthy a place in 
this collection, I certainly believe; nor could I see that 
there would be more presumption in thus including them 
among the poems of my sister authoresses, than in pub- 
lishing mine in a separate volume. But whether to pre- 
face them or not, was the question. I flattered myself that 
those who were interested in my writings, might regret the 
omission of any notice of the writer : to speak of myself in 
the third person savored too much of affectation ; still there 
is great discretion required in using the great I. — Finally, 
I decided to confine my remarks chiefly to the influences 
which have made me what I am; — as thus, it appeared to 
me, my history might be of some benefit or consolation to 
those who are suffering similar sorrows, or struggling with 
similar difficulties ; and such of my readers as are happily 
exempt from these, may find, in their •'halcyon lot" the 
reason that their talents have never been directed to litera- 
ry pursuits. FeAV females are educated for authorship ; 
and as the obstacles which oppose the entrance of woman 
on the fields of literature are many and great, it requires, 
usually, a powerful pressure of outward circumstances to 



384 THE LA.DIES' WREATH. 

develop and mature her genius. — It may be truly said o| 
her, that 

" Strength is born 

In the deep silence of long suffering hearts. 

Not amidst joy." 

My family name was Buell, and ray birth-place New- 
port, now a pretty village nestled among the " green hills " 
of New-Hampshire, My parents were originally from 
Saybrook, Connecticut, which they left soon after the close 
of the revolutionary war, carrying witn them to the then 
wilderness of the North, thai love of learning and those 
strict religious observances which distinguished the inhab- 
itants of the " Charter State." But goo ; schools could not 
at once be established in the new settlements ; and I owe 
my early predilection for literary pursuits to the teaching 
and example of my mother. She had enjoyed uncommon 
advantages of education for a female of her times — possess- 
ed a mind clear as rock-water, and a most happy talent of 
communicating knowledge. She had read many of the old 
black-letter chronicles and romances of the days of chiv- 
alry ; and innumerable were the ballads, songs and stories 
with which she amused and instructed her children — for 
she always contrived to teach us some serious truth^ while 
she charmed us by these legends. We did not need the 
"Infant School" to make us love learning. 

The books to which I had access were few, very few, in 
comparison with those given to children now-a-days; but 
they were such as required to be studied, and I did study 
them. Next to the Bible and Pilgrim's Progress, my ear- 
liest reading was Milton, Johnson, Pope, Cowper, and a part 
of Shakspeare — I did not obtain all his works, till some 
years after. The first regular novel I read, was " The 
Mysteries of Udolpho," when I was about seven years of 
age. I name it on account of the influence it exercised over 
my mind. I had remarked, that of all the books I saw, 



SARAH J. HALE. 385 

few were written by Americans, and none by women. 
But here was a work, the most fascinating I had ever read, 
always excepting "Pilgrim's Progress," written by a wo- 
man. How happy it made me! — The wish to promote 
the reputation of my own sex and my own country, were 
among the earliest mental emotions I can recollect — and 
had I then been told that it would be my good fortune to 
gather even this humble Wreath of poetical flowers from 
the productions of female writers, I should have thought it 
the height of felicity. And how often I breathed the as- 
piration of Burns, when reading the praises of European 
authors, — 

" That I, for my dear country's sake. 
Some useful plan or book might make, 
Or write a song, at least." 

These feelings had a salutary mfluence in directing my 
thoughts to a definite object ;— and if, in what I have writ- 
ten, common sense and practical usefulness have predom- 
inated over romance and sentiment, I am persuaded that I 
owe this result to my early mood of mind. 

From my brother * I acquired some knowledge of the 
Latin language, and of Philosophy. In childhood our 
studies had been pursued together, and he seemed very 
unwilling that I should be deprived of all his collegiate 
advantages. 

I had written some poems, a few of which were publish- 
ed, previous to my marriage; and during my husband's 
lifetime, he occasionally sent an article of mine to the 
Journals, though my chief aim in literature was to prepare 
something for the amusement of our own fireside. Till 
my husband's death, which occurred September, 1822, I 
had never seriously contemplated becoming an authoress. 
I dare not speak of my husband as I think he deserved ; 

* The late Judge Buell, of Glen Falls, N. Y. 

33 



386 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

itwould be accounted vanity or weakness ; but a few words 
respecting one whose character so influenced mine, will, I 
trust, be pardoned. 

The pious Mrs. Graham, named, as among her best 
earthly blessings, that her husband was a man of " sense 
and sensibility : " — such a man was David Hale. Of a 
calm, deliberative, yet tender disposition, he united, with a 
cool and sound judgment, a persevering spirit in all his 
pursuits ; quick discrimination and refined taste, with that 
benevolence which "hopeth all things," and is therefore 
always kind: his was that combination of intellectual and 
moral powers, which make the perfectly balanced mind. — 
He was a number of years my senior in age, but far more 
my superior in knowledge. His profession, the Law, he 
had pursued with zeal and success, but general literature 
occupied much of his leisure, and in the English classics 
and language he was a thorough scholar. — Under his in- 
struction and example, my prose style of writing, which 



55 



the critics generally allow to be "pure idiomatic English,' 
was formed ; I acknowledge that my early predilection was 
for the pompous words and sounding periods of Johnson ; 
and I had greatly admired the sublime flights and glittering 
fancies of Counsellor Phillips, the Irish Orator, then in the 
meridian of his fame ; but my husband convinced me, by 
analyzing his sentences, that these were, as he had called 
them, "sublime nonsense." To me, the period of our 
union was one of unbroken happiness ; for I do not think 
that ill health need make one wretched who has mental 
resources, a happy home, and faith in heaven. We com- 
menced, immediately after our marriage, a system of study, 
which we pursued together, with few interruptions, and 
these unavoidable, during his life. The hours we allotted 
were from eight o'clock in the evening till ten. In this 
manner we studied French, Botany, then almost a new 
science in the country, but for which my husband had an 
uncommon taste ; and obtained some knowledge of Min- 
eralogy, Geology, &c. ; besides pursuing a long and in- 



SARAH J. HALE. 387 

structive course of reading. — In all our mental pursuits, it 
seemed the aim of Mr. Hale to enlighten my reason, 
strengthen my judgment, and give me confidence in my 
own powers of mind, which he estimated much higher 
than I did. I equalled him in imagination, but in no other 
faculty. Yet this approbation which he bestowed on my 
talents has been of great encouragement to me in attempt- 
ing the duties which were to be my portion. In short, had 
we known the future, the course pursued could not have 
been more judicious. But such a result seemed utterly 
improbable, for he enjoyed the most perfect health, while 
mine was very delicate. Still I was to be the survivor — 
he died suddenly, as with a stroke — and with him seemed 
to expire every earthly hope. His business was large, for 
the country, but he had hardly reached that age when men 
of his profession begin to lay up property, — and he had 
spared no indulgence to his family. We had lived in com- 
fort, but I was left poor. For myself, the change added 
not one particle to my grief — but for my children I was 
deeply distressed. I had five, the eldest only seven years 
of age ; how were these to be supported and educated 1 
I cared not that they should inherit wealth — I never cov- 
eted great riches — but to be deprived the advantages of 
education was to make them " poor indeed." At length, 
after revolving the subject deeply in my mind, I determined 
to attempt to provide for their education myself, in some 
measure as their father would have done. I resolved to 
devote my whole earthly care to that one object, and, rely- 
ing on Providence, to go onward, whatever obstacles might 
impede.* 

* I am sure that the benevolent reader will be glad to learn that 
I have been, thus far, successful in my design. My eldest son, ed- 
ucated at West Point, is now a Lieutenant in the U. S. service; and 
from his small pay assists me — and my other children are so 
far advanced in that course of education I had marked out, as to 
give me good reason to believe that I shall, in a few years, see them 
intelligent and useful men^bers of the community. 



388 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

The very few employments in which females can engage 
with any hope of profit, and my own constitution and pur- 
suits, made literature appear my best resource. I prepared 
a small volume of Poems, mostly written before my hus- 
band's decease; these were published, by the aid of the 
Free Masons, of which order he was a distinguished mem- 
ber. My next work was "Northwood," a novel in two 
volumes, chiefly descriptive of New-England character 
and manners. In 1828 I was invited to come to Boston, 
and take charge of " The American Ladies' Magazine," 
there to be established, I had many fears for its success ; 
no publication of the kind had been long sustained; but 
the adventure promised advantages in educating my chil- 
dren — and I accepted. I have continued the periodical now 
almost nine years, with what success the public must 
judge. The task has been an arduous one, and by its de- 
mand for a great variety of intellectual topics has prevent- 
ed me from attempting any connected plan of much im- 
portance. My works published since I came to Boston, are 
" Sketches of American Characters," " Flora's Interpreter," 
" Traits of American Life," and several books for children. 
I have found many kind friends, and, relying on their sup- 
port, I have prepared this work. And though my own 
share in it may not challenge applause, yet I trust the 
critics will allow that 

"Next to genius, is the power 
Of feeling where true genius lies." 



SARAH J. HALE. 389 



THE VICTOR'S CROWN. 

A CROWN for the victor — a crown of light! — 
From the land where the flowers ne'er feel a blight 
Was gathered the wreath that around it blows, 
And he, who o'ercometh his treacherous foes, 

That fadeless crown shall gain: 
A king went forth on the rebel array, 
Entrenched where a lovely hamlet lay; 
He frowned, and there's nought save ashes and blood, 
And blackened bones where that hamlet stood, 

Yet his treacherous foes he hath not slain. 

A crown for the victor — a crown of light I 
Encircled with jewels so pure and bright, 
Night never hath gloomed where its lustre flows ; 
And he, who can conquer his proudest foes. 

That glorious crown shall gain: 
A hero came from the gory field, 
And low at his feet the pale captives kneel'd; 
In his might he hath trodden a nation down. 
But he may not challenge the glorious crown. 

For his proudest foes he hath not slain. 

A crown for the victor — a crown of light ! 
Like the morning sun, to the dazzled sight, 
From the night of a dungeon raised, it glows, 
And he, who can slay his deadliest foes. 

That shining crown shall gain : 
With searching eye, and stealthy tread. 
The man of wrath sought his enemy's bed : 
33* 



390 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Like festering wounds are the wrongs he hath borne, 
And he takes the revenge his soul had sworn. 
But his deadliest foe he hath not slain. 

A crown for the victor — a crown of light ! 
To be worn with a robe whose spotless white 
Makes darkness seem resting on Alpine snows; 
And he, who o'ercometh his mightiest foes, 

That robe and crown shall gain : 
With eye upraised, and forehead bare, 
A Pilgrim knelt down in holy prayer, 
He hath wrestled with 5e//and with passion striven, 
And to him hath the sword of the Spirit been given, 

O, crown him, for his foes, his sins are slain ! 



THE TWO MAIDENS. 

One came — with light and laughing air, 
And cheek like opening blossom, 

Bright gems were twined amid her hair, 
And glittered on her bosom j 

And pearls and costly bracelets deck 

Her round white arms and lovely neck. 

Like summer's sky, with stars bedight. 
The jewelled robe around her. 

And dazzling as the noontide light 
The radiant zone that bound her; 

And pride and joy were in her eye. 

And mortals bowed as she passed by. 

Another came — o'er her mild face 
A pensive shade was stealing, 



SARAH J. HALE. 391 

Yet there no grief of earth we trace, 

But that deep holy feeling, 
Which mourns the heart should ever stray 
From the pure fount of Truth away. 

Around her brow, as snow-drop fair, 

The glossy tresses cluster, 
Nor pearl, nor ornament was there. 

Save the mee.k spiriVs lustre — 
And faith and hope beamed from her eye, 
And angels bowed as she passed by. 



THE LIGHT OF HOME. 

My son, thou ^'i!f dream the world is fair, 

And thy spirit will sigh to roam, 
And thou must go;- -but never, when there, 

Forget the light of home. 

Though Pleasure may smile with a ray more bright. 

It dazzles to lead astray : 
Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night. 

When thou treadest the lonely way. 

But the hearth of home has a constant flame, 

And pure as vestal fire ; 
'Twill burn, 'twill burn, forever the same. 

For nature feeds the pyre. 

The sea of Ambition is tempest tost. 
And thy hopes may vanish like foam ; 

But when sails are shiver'd, and rudder lost, 
Then look to the light of home. 



392 THE LADIES' WRKATH. 

And there, like a star through the midnight cloud, 

Thou shalt see the beacon bright ; 
For never, till shining on thy shroud, 

Can be qjench'd its holy light. 

The sun of Fame, 'twill gild the name, 

But the heart ne'er feels its ray ; 
And Fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim, 

Are like beams of a wintry day : 

And how cold and dim those beams would be, 

Should life's poor wanderer come 1 
But my son, when the world is dark to thee, 

Then turn to the light of home. 



NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

Addressed to my Daughters at School. 

One day — it is a trifling theme. 

And who would heed a day ? 
An evening's gloom, a morning's gleam. 

How soon they pass away ! 
'Tis but a welcome — an adieu — 

The fairest day is gone ; 
And with to-morrow's hopes in view. 

We bid the hours roll on — 
To-day like bird in tethering string, 
With faded eye, and folded Aving, 

Its narrow circle creeps ; 
But like a bird in airy flight. 
With wing of power and eye of light. 

To-morrow heaven-ward sweeps. 



SARAH J. HALE. 393 

Such are the dreams of early youth, 

Ere dimm'd by gathering fears ; 
The halo round the orb of Truth, 

Presages clouds and tears--^ 
I trust, my loved ones, still ye see 

The brightness clear and pure, 
And gloomy thoughts that shadow me 

Unmoved I can endure -r- 
The vine, even its prop is lost. 
Its tendrils torn and ten. pest-tost, 

May shield the little flower; 
And thus I bide he world's rude strife, 
That I may shield your morn of life 

From sorrow's blightincr power. 

'Tis sad, as years grow short, to know 

Death only brings relief; 
But saddest far of earthly wo 

Is childhood bowed in grief;--- 
In sunny skies let fledgings fly ; 

Be prairies green and fair, 
Ere the young fawns come forth to try 

Their glancing footsteps there. 
Nature and Instinct guard the young-^ 
But only from the human tongue 

Love's holy vows are given; 
And only human hearts are filled 
With springs of Love, that, when distilled, 

Rise to their fount in heaven.. 

And thus doth feeling'^s signet prove 

Man's origin divine ; 
When eye meets eye in trusting love, 

We feel the sacred sign : 
Of life, immortal life !— how mild 

The glorious promise shines, 



394 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

When the young mother o'er her child, 

First reads the deathless lines, 
The spirit on its clay impresses, 
And answers with her warm caresses. 

As she were fain to bind 
Its soul to her's ! — And this is Love — 
'Tis prayer on earth ; 'tis praise above j 
' Tis God within the mind. 

And in Love's name I'll drink my cup. 

Nor deem it steeped in tears. 
While fondly I am garnering up 

Rich hopes for future years. 
O, I shall hear glad voices say, 

" Thy children bless thy care ! " 
These are my cherished dreams to-day, 

And who has dreams more fair ? 
Dreams will they prove ?— I fear it not— 
, I communed with my secret thought, 

Nor selfish wish was there — 
One only — and it will endure — 
" O, keep my dear ones good and pure!" 

And Heaven will hear my prayer! 



SARAH J. HALE. 395 



THE FATHER'S CHOICE.* 

Now fly, as flies the rushing wind — 

Urge, urge thy lagging steed ! 
The savage yell is fierce behind. 

And life is on thy speed. 

And from those dear ones make thy choice — 

The group he wildly eyed. 
When "father!" burst from every voice. 

And " child! " his heart replied. 

There's one that now can share his toil, 

And one he meant for fame, 
And one that wears her mother's smile, 

And one that bears her name. 

* In the year 1697, a body of Indians attacked the town of Haver- 
hill, Mass., killed and carried into captivity 40 inhabitants. A party 
of the Indians approached the house of Mr. Thurston, who was 
abroad at his labor, but who, on their approach, hastened to the 
house, sent his children out, and ordered them to fly in a course op- 
posite to that in which danger was approaching. He then mounted 
his horse, and determined to snatch up the child with which he was 
most unwilling to part, when he should overtake the little flock. 
When he came up to them, about 200 yards from his house, he was 
unable to make a choice, or to leave any one of the number. He 
therefore determined to take his lot with them, and defend them 
from their murderers, or die by their side. A body of the Indians 
pursued and came up with him; and when at a short distance, fired 
on him and his little company. He returned the fire, and retreated 
alternately ; still, however, keeping a resolute face to the enemy, 
and so effectually sheltered his charge that he finally lodged them 
all safe in a distant house. 



596 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

And one will prattle on his knee, 

Or slumber on his breast ; 
And one whose joys of infancy 

Are still by smiles expressed. 

They feel no fear while he is near ; 

He'll shield them from the foe ; 
But oh ! his heart must break to hear 

Their shriekings should he go. 

In vain his quivering lips would speak; 

No words his thoughts allow ; 
There's burning tears upon his cheek, 

Death's marble on his brow. 

And twice he smote his cold clenchM hand 

Then bade his children fly ! 
And turned, and even that savage band 

Cowered at his wrathful eye. 

Swift as the lightning winged with death. 
Flashed forth the quivering flame ! 

Their fiercest warrior bows beneath 
The fatiier's deadly aim. 

Not the wild cries, that rend the skies. 

His heart or purpose move ; 
He saves his children, or he dies 

The sacrifice of love. 

Ambition goads the conq'rer on, 
Hate points the murderer's brand — 

But love and duty, these alone 
Can ntrve the good man's hand. 

The hero may resign the field, 
The coward murderer flee ; 



SARAH J. HALE. 397 

He cannot fear, he will not yield, 
That strikes, sweet love, for thee. 

They come, they come — he heeds no cry. 

Save the soft child-like wail, 
" O father, save I " " My children fly ! » 

Were mingled on the gale. 

And firmer still he drew his breath. 

And sterner flashed his eye, 
As fast he hurls the leaden death, 

Still shouting, " Children fly ! " 

No shadow on his brow appeared. 

Nor tremor shook his frame, 
Save when at intervals he heard 

Some trembler lisp his name. 

In vain the foe, those fiends unchained, 

Like famished tigers chafe, 
The sheltering roof is neared, is gained, 

All, all the dear ones safe I 



THE SILK WORM. 

There is no form, upon our earth. 
That bears the mighty Makers seal. 

But has some charm — to draw this forth. 
We need but hearts to feel. 

I saw a fair young girl — her face 

Was sweet as dream of cherish'd friend- 
Just at the age when childhood's grace 
And maiden softness blend. 
34 



398 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

A silk-worm in her hand she laid, 
Nor fear, nor yet disgust was stirred j 

But gaily with her charge she play'd. 
As 'twere a nestling bird. 

She raised it to her dimpled cheek, 
And let it rest and revel there— 

O, why for outward beauty seek ! 
Love makes its favorites fair. 

That worm — I should have shrunk in truth, 
To feel the reptile o'er me move — 

But, loved by innocence and youth, 
I deemed it worthy love. 

Would we, I thought, the soul imbue, 
In early life, with sympathies 

For every harmless thing, and view 
Such creatures formed to please ; 

And when with usefulness combined, 
Give them our love and gentle care — 

O, we might have a world as kind, 
As God has made it fair ! 

There is no form upon our earth, 
That bears the mighty Maker's seal, 

But has some charm — to call this forth 
We need but hearts to feel. 



SARAH J. HALE. 399 



TIME'S LAST VISIT. 

[There is a Persian legend representing Time before commenc- 
ing his " New Year's Flight," warning those who are to die during 
the coming season, of their inevitable fate.] 

The night was a cold and stormy one, 

And the year was running low, 
When Time threw his travelling mantle on, 

As he were about to go: 
And he cast on his glass a rueful look — 

" The sands will be out," he said, 
(Seizing his memorandum book,) 

"And these visits must be made : 
But it does little good the fools to warn — 

I almost lose my labors ; 
They think the last visit I make to them 

Is always meant for their neighbors. 

Last year my duty was faithfully done — 

I traversed the city through. 
Revealing to every devoted one 

I had come for a final adieu : 
Why, they treated my warning as Nicholas treats 

The groans of the dying Poles : 
Or thought 'twas to save — (how this avarice cheats !) 

Their money not their souls, 
That my hint of a speedy departure was given. 

Though I bade them farewell like a lover; 
,And how few there were who prepared for heaven ! 

I can easily reckon them over. 

And first to a Banker's house I hied, 
Though I knew he was often surly, 



400 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

But these Rothchilds — one must humor their pride- 
So I hasten'd to warn him early. 

I found him within at a sumptuous feast. 
An Aspician sauce was before him, 

And its flavor he praised to each smiling guest — 
'Tis Death ! — thus my warning came o'er him. 

Oh, how his eye glared as he bade me flee ! 
I was off" like a twinkle of light, 

And he ate at that dinner enough for three. 
And he died of a spasm that night. 

I hurried away to a Doctor, then. 

Though I knew I might spare my pains — 
Thathe thought of disease as the end of men, 

And of death as the doctors' gains — 
'My patient must die,' he was maundering on. 

As he glanced a fee-bill o'er, 
'And his money will go to his graceless son, — 

My bill might be somewhat more ; 
For the youth will ne'er take the trouble to note 

That Pve charged five visits a day :' 
So he figured away, while I laughed in his ear, 

Remember my visit's to pay ! 

I told an Old Man it was time he should go, 

And he was too deaf to hear : — 
I called at the play on a dashing Beau, 

And he was too gay to fear : — 
I paused in a Merchant's counting-room, 

And a dunce was I to stop. 
Scarce would he have heeded the crash of doom, 

While reckoning his leger up. 
There is one demand — I began to say — 

He burst with a hurried breath, 
'Show me your bill, I've the cash to pay' — 

I left him to settle with death I 



SARAH J. HALE. 401 

I stopped at a Pooit Man's humble shed, 

And thought 'twould delight him so, 
For I knew he had often wished he was dead — 

But he flatly refused to go: 
And O, the wild agony of his eye, 

As he begged me one year to give ! 
Saying, 'twas too bad for a man to die 

Who had struggled so hard to live ; 
That his wife must beg, and his children starve — 

I whispered of charity; 
He raised his eye with a look of despair — 

' 'Tis a broken reed,' sighed he. 

I had fared so ill with the lords of earth, 

Of the earth they had proved indeed, 
That I turned to the sex of gentler birth, 

Hoping more kindly to speed ! 
On the beautiful Belle I made a call, 

A milliner's girl stood by — 
She brought a new dress for the New Year's ball — 

I breathed a sepulchral sigh. 
And the rich red flowers looked ghastly white — 

'How odd ! ' cried the beauty in sorrow; 
' These do not become at all to-night, 

But bring me some brighter to-morrow ' 

And then — but why continue the list, 

So fraught witli chagrin to me : 
Who likes to remember the times he has missed, 

When recounting his archery? 
I called, in fine, on the old and the young. 

Fair, ugly and sober and gay, 
The chorus the same to the tune they all sung — 

They would not be hurried away! 
There were many who hated the world, to be sure, 

And called Time an old villainous cheat, 
34* 



402 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

But Heaven was so distant, so bright and so pure ; 
They had no inclination to see'l. 

Worms of the dust I 1 murmured in wrath, 

As I entered a stately dome. 
And, following the clue of my fated path, 

Repaired to a nursery room ; 
The children Avere sleeping like nestled birds, 

And SHE, the sweet mother dove, 
W^ith a face too happy to paint by words, 

Was choosing her gifts of love 
For the New Year's morn — I touched her cheek, 

She knew the deadly thrill, 
And raising her eyes with a smile so meek, 

— 'My Father, 'tis thy will.' 

Yes, Woman should always be ready logo, 

She has nothing on earth but Love ; 
A dowry that bears little value below, 

But 'tis priceless transferred above: 

lavish it not on my brightest joys, 
'Tis folly, 'tis worse than vain; 

1 never bestow them except as toys, 

I mean to resume again. 
Even now I shall gather a thousand fair things 

I gave when this year was new, 
And the hopes for the next, that I shake from my wings, 

Will prove as deceitful too. 

But why should I preach ? who'll the wiser be ? 

The young are engaged with pleasure; 
The aged have cut all acquaintance with me, 

And nobody else is at leisure : 
They may learn if they will, tlio' their date is brief. 

Some monitor ever is nigh; 
There's the fading flower, the falling leaf, 

And the year about to die ; — 



SARAH J. HALE. 403 

These speak to the hearts of the humble and just, — 

For the earthly and obstinate: 
Why, my visit to such would be labor lost. 

So I leave them, for aye, to their fate. 



TO A PALM LEAF. 

Gathered from a tree, that shades the grave of Paul and Vir- 
ginia, in the Isle of France. 

PvE looked on thee, wan leaf, 
Till thou dost seem the messenger of fear. 

And my heart thrills, as grief, 
Deep, certain, terrible, were hovering near. 

I see the gathering storm. 
Darkness and whirlwind, and the roaring main! — 

And now a fair young form 
Beseeching Heaven for aid — it is in vain ! 

She rests, that lovely maid. 
Wan leaf, she rests beneath thy parent tree; 

And in that hallowed shade. 
Her heart-struck lover slumbers peacefully. 

They need not glory's wreath 
To keep their memory from the blight of years ; 

A leaf can speak their death. 
And from the full soul wring a gush of tears. 

But autumn winds will rise. 
And scatter far our forests' waving glory ; 

Yet not a leaf that flies. 
Will whisper to the heart this moving story. 

For nature hath no tongue 
Till Genius breathes upon the slumbering mass ; 



404 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

Till Genius' light is flung, 
We heed no shadows, beckoning as they pass. 

But all is still and dark, 
And men may die unheeded as the rain 

Falls round the gliding bark, 
Urging her rapid course athwart the main. 

Yes, more — the cherished worth, 
Of all men strive for in their earthly race, 

Fades with their names from earth. 
If Genius smile not on their dwelling-place. 

Then Genius, with the free 
Come dwell — our broad land with thy presence fill, 

Till mountain, stream, and tree, 
Shall have a spell to move, a voice to thrill. 



MAN'S FIRST OFFERING. 

When nature in infancy smiled, 

All innocence, beauty, and love. 
Ere sorrow had blighted, or sin had beguiled, 

Or the serpent had banished the dove, — 
Then man, as Jehovah's own child, 

Still worshipped his Father above — 
The blue vault of heaven his temple sublime, — 
His altar, creation — his offering, time. 

The " seventh " of all was the tithe. 

The heart the pure censer of fire ; 
The incense was hallowed with gratitude blithe, 

Which bade it to heaven aspire ; 
(Then change had ne'er troubled, for Time had no scythe,) 

And seraphims sounded the choir ; 
And soft, sweet, harmonious the song flow'd around, 
Like the spirit of purity breathing in sound. 



SARAH J. HALE. 405 



THE AMULET. 

A FEW more years, my cherished one, 

And these will soon be fled ; 
And where will then my little son 

Repose his weary head ? 
Not on thy mother's faithful breast, 

As thou hast done to-day j 
The time of childhood's happy rest 

Will then be passed away. 

Thy childish pastimes will be o'er. 

The hoop and ball thrown by, 
And "mother" will be called no more 

To teach the kite to fly : 
A higher flight the world will speak, 

To charm thy youthful heart ; 
And home's soft ties will lightly break, 

And thoUj too, will depart. 

I know that this must be — I know 

A man must join the throng ; 
As palms in sunshine loftier grow, 

And oaks in storms more strong, — 
So man's bold virtues best unfold 

Beneath the world's broad sky ; 
And yet the mother's home how cold. 

When all her birds can fly 1 

O, many a time, when pressed with care, 

Or sick with pain and grief, 
And none my soul's deep thoughts to share, 

I've found a sweet relief 



406 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

From gazing on thy face, my boy, 
In life's pure morning bright ; 

'Twas as the smiling beam of joy 
To sorrow's lonely night. 

And many a time the midnight hour 

Has found my task delayed ; 
My spirit felt a withering power — 

The cypress' gloomy shade: 
In vain to frame the song I sought, 

Its burning visions gone, 
'Till from thy peaceful rest I caught 

The hope to bear me on. 

And tell me not to crush that hope, 

How false such fancies prove, 
That bitterest minglings of our cup 

Are poured by those we love. 
There's One can prosper all my care, 

And He my toils will bless — 
The tender watch that sparrows share^ 

Will guard my fatherless. 

And he can bless the amulet 

A mother's love would frame, 
Make wisdom's gems these words I set 

Tried in the heart's pure flame. 
Then, dear one, bear this song of home 

Graved on thy memory, 
And when the world's temptations comCj 

Thou wilt remember me. 



SARAH J. HALE. 407 



THE THREE SCEPTRES, 

A VISION. 

" Bring forth the sceptres of command ! '* 

That awful voice I heard — 
" And let the subject nations stand ! " 

The waiting world appeared. 
Then drew the sceptre-bearers nigh, 
Old Asia, first, crept cowering by ; 
Next Europe, with her troubled eye; 

Then young America : 
Each placed her sceptre, passed ; and then, 
Unveiled before the sons of men, 
A Sword, a Crosier, and a Pen 

Upon the altar lay. 

Again the voice uprose, and loud 

Like battle-cry it came, 
And wildly, from that heaving crowd, 

Echoed the shout— " For Fame ! " 
Brother 'gainst brother fiercely stood, 
The earth was graves, the rivers blood — 
Kingdoms were crushed, as wasting flood 

Had swept o'er crumbling clay, — 
Till, 'mid the din, a dove appeared I 
The heavenly tone of " Peace ! " was heard 
I looked, and, with that gentle word. 

The Sword had passed away! 

Then like a storm of ashes hurled 

From the volcano's height, 
A thick, dark cloud rolled o'er the world, 

Blotting Mind's blessed light — 






408 THE LADIES' WREATH. 

And men sunk down, in utter dread ; 
Mailed warriors, weak as infants tread, 
And monarchs, with uncovered head. 

Stooped low the cowl before ; 
And Superstition's iron reign 
Has seared the heart, and shrunk the brain — 
Ha '. — Thought's strong grasp has rent the chain; — 

The Crosier's sway is o'er. 

Pure as the light on altar glows. 

Lit up by prophet's prayer, 
A small, soft, steady light arose 

On earth, on sea, and air ; 
It shines as shed from seraphs' wings. 
Withering all vile, old, useless things — 
Like scorched flax from the grasp of kings 

The reins of empire sever; 
It burns from Craft his mask of night, 
Intemperance blasts with perfect light. 
And shows the Ethiop's soul is white, — 

" The Pen — the Pen forever ! " 

Thus rang the voice — its trumpet tone 

Burst like a swelling river; 
From land to land went sounding on, 

" The Pen — the Pen forever ! " 
I saw earth's joyous millions move. 
Justice their shield, their banner love, — 
While Freedom's eagle, high above. 

Soared with unslumbering eye ; 
Cool springs gushed forth mid arid sands. 
Bright floAvers sprung up in desert lands. 
And bands of peace, from angel hands. 

Were linking earth and sky. 



*" te. 9 



•9 









<^ 



< 







o »i 






.^'\ 




O M O ^ <^ 





. °o 



,-*■ . 


































^^0^ 



c^ . 



•1 <=>K 




Q H O 



^^•^^^ 

^ '^ * 'f^U«S/'^'"o "^^^ Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. , 

•^^^ ® <:^^™'™^^''' ^ Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide o 

"^^ - Z?5^.^-JS^ ~ ^ Treatment Date: Jan. 2009 * 

f/ ^'v PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION .^., 
111 Thomson Park Drive c 

- ~0 4I"'* •^sSJ Cranberry Township, PA 16066 

O^ <'^ oV^ (724)779-2111 



















w o 



0^ ***o* ^;> V 















^. 







4 o. 
















"oK 




->^o^ 



1^ -fii >f 





: ^f DOBBSBROS. aM/tI ° "^^A ^ <^9^^ ^^r.cP 

LIBRARY BINDING \W\f//xl-t "<^'\ z^^^^^I-!!^^ "^ ^ 




A ST. AUGUSTINE ^. ' ^ <0^ ^ 'o . . «» A 

32084 ^^ q4 



o " a 




O V 




.K>;, 



h> 






<<r;H-- 



K^^i )> 



^^<'.>?," 



[»-'S 






y^l. 



